Page 35 of Sanctuary

“The Director’s given me a week,” Craven continued conversationally, as if discussing dinner plans. “But between you and me, I think you’ll break much sooner. The smart ones usually do.”

I kept my breathing steady, focusing on a knot in the wooden wall behind him. Detach. Compartmentalize. Survive.

“You know,” he said, pulling up a chair to face me, “I’ve followed your career with interest.”

He selected a scalpel from his array, turning it so the firelight danced along its edge. “I’ve always wondered what it would take to break someone like you. I guess we’re about to find out.”

He lifted the weapon towards my face but paused. “You’re quite the tempting morsel,” he remarked. Returning the scalpel to his collection of tools, he glanced at me again. “I think I’ll hold off for a week. I wouldn’t want to ruin that lovely face before I ravish you completely.”

Chapter 17

Mia

Day five of my captivity and I still haven’t caved. Nor will I. The zip ties have left raw, bleeding marks around my wrists. I’ve been moved from the chair to a narrow cot at night, my hands secured to the metal frame but otherwise left alone in the darkness. Small mercies I suppose.

Craven has been true to his word about waiting for the week before starting his ‘real work,’ as he calls it, but his psychological games have already been relentless. He sits across from me for hours, describing in graphic detail what he plans to do to me when his countdown ends. Sometimes he cleans his tools in front of me, polishing each one until it gleams in the firelight. Other times, he simply watches me, his pale eyes never blinking, like a snake studying its prey.

I’ve been trained to withstand psychological torture, pain and fear, but the waiting—the dreadful anticipation he’s cultivating—is its own special form of hell. Beating me to a pulp would be preferred over this.

Two days left. That’s what he told me this morning before stepping out for supplies. Two days before Matheson gives him free rein.

I’ve made three escape attempts so far. The first nearly worked—I’d managed to free my hand enough to reach a knife he’d carelessly left too close. I was sawing through the second zip tie when he returned unexpectedly. That earned me a split lip and tighter restraints.

The second attempt involved trying to break the chair I was tied to. Craven caught me mid-action and merely laughed, amused by my desperation.

The third attempt was last night. I’d been rubbing the zip tie on a loosened screw in the frame of my cot. Hoping that I could weaken it enough to break it. I’d almost freed one hand when he appeared in the doorway, watching silently. He didn’t stop me, didn’t approach—just stood there until I gave up, my spirit breaking a little more under his unwavering gaze.

“Connor,” I whisper into the empty cabin, my voice cracking from disuse. “Please find me.”

The crunch of tires tells me that Craven is back from wherever he was off to, and I feel like begging him to just end my misery.

The cabin door slams open, letting in a blast of cold air that makes the fire flicker wildly in the fireplace. His massive silhouette fills the doorway, his breathing heavy and uneven. Something about him is different tonight. The disciplined control, the detachment he’s maintained all week has disappeared, replaced by something raw and primal. And I can smell the booze on him. The fucker is half drunk.

“Change of plans,” he slurs, tossing his bag carelessly aside instead of arranging his tools with his usual precision. His eyes rake over me, lingering on my body in places that make my skin crawl. “I’m tired of waiting.”

My heart hammers against my ribs as he stalks toward me, unbuckling his belt every step he takes. The metallic clink of the buckle echoes in the cabin like a death knell. I feel like I’m going to vomit, knowing that I don’t have the strength to fight him off.

“The Director said a week,” I reminded him, hating the tremor in my voice. “You still have two days.”

Craven laughs, a sound like gravel being crushed underfoot. “The Director isn’t here.” He looms over me, close enough that I can smell whisky on his breath. “And I’ve been patient long enough.”

His hand shoots out, grabbing my jaw with bruising force, tilting my face up to his. “You know, in my line of work, you learn to read people. And you, Mia? You’re not as tough as you pretend to be.”

I try to jerk away, but his grip only tightens. “Don’t touch me,” I spit, directing my fear into rage.

“Or what?” he taunts, his other hand moving to the zipper on his jeans. “Your husband can’t save you. No one knows where you are. It’s just you and me out here, all alone.”

My mind races, searching desperately for a way out. I need to buy time, create an opportunity. Craven is strong, but he’s also arrogant—and right now, he’s not thinking clearly.

“Wait,” I gasp, forcing myself to soften, to appear vulnerable. “Please... not like this.”

His eyebrows rise in surprise, suspicion momentarily replacing the desire on his face. “What are you saying?”

I swallow my disgust and meet his gaze. “If this is happening... at least untie me. Let me touch you too.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to laugh in my face. But then I see it—that flicker of male vanity, of ego. The thought that he might be irresistible, even to his captive, is too tempting to dismiss.

“Nice try,” he says, but there’s hesitation in his voice. “You think I’m stupid enough to free you?”

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