Page 78 of Royal Beast
My grip on the chair falters, and I stagger. The dizziness intensifies, and the coffee I drank earlier churns in my stomach.
“Darcy!” Max’s voice is sharper now, laced with something like panic, or guilt.
I crumple to the floor, the cold linoleum pressing against my cheek. My limbs feel heavy, my vision darkening at the edges.
The last thing I hear before the darkness claims me is Guy’s voice, low and urgent. “We need to move. Now.”
When I wake, it feels like hours have passed, though it could only have been a few minutes. My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, the pounding relentless. I blink, feeling disoriented as my vision swims in the dim light. The smell of gasoline fills my nose, making my stomach churn.
It takes me a moment to understand what’s happening, but the cold press of metal against my back and the blackness around me send a jolt of panic through my veins.
I’m in a car trunk.
I struggle, but the sharp pull of something tight against my wrists and ankles halts me. My hands and feet are bound tightly with duct tape, the sticky material biting into my skin as I test my restraints.
My breaths come shallow and fast, my chest tightening with fear. I twist, trying to get my bearings. The surface beneath me vibrates faintly, the hum of an engine reaching my ears. The car is moving.
As my eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through a crack near the taillights, I spot something familiar. It’s a tatteredduffel bag shoved into the corner. The sight of it makes my blood run cold.
It’s Guy’s bag.
The one I’ve seen slung over his shoulder countless times, its faded logo and frayed straps unmistakable.
This is his car.
My pulse thunders in my ears as the realization sinks in. Guy took me.
Panic claws at my chest, my breaths hitching as I tug at the tape binding my wrists. It doesn’t budge, the adhesive biting into my skin with every movement.
I try to focus, to think past the fear threatening to consume me. My father—he did this. He helped Guy. They planned this together.
The betrayal is like a knife to the gut, but there’s no time to dwell on it. I need to get out of here.
I twist again, ignoring the burn of the tape, the claustrophobic weight of the trunk pressing down on me. The car slows, the engine rumbling as it comes to a stop.
My heart races.
Where is he taking me?
I press my lips together, forcing myself to breathe through my nose, to quiet the sob building in my throat.
I can’t fall apart now.
I force myself to breathe. In and out. Slow and steady. Panicking won’t help.
My hands are still trembling, but I close my eyes, trying to recall everything I’ve ever learned about getting out of situations like this.
The self-defense class I took a few years ago rises in my mind. The instructor’s voice comes back to me like a lifeline.Duct tape is strong but not indestructible. Focus on leverage, not brute force.
I twist my ankles together, creating a gap in the tape. It burns against my skin, but I don’t stop. My movements are slow, careful. It takes time, too much time, but finally, my feet feel the cool freedom of movement.
I draw my legs up, the cramped space forcing me to bend awkwardly. My heart pounds as I shuffle to my side, twisting my body until I can reach the back panel of the trunk.
Another memory flashes.If you’re in a trunk, kick out the taillights. Make noise. Make yourself seen.
I shift, pressing my back against the wall of the trunk for leverage. My foot connects with the cool plastic of the taillight cover. The first kick doesn’t do much, but on the second try, the cover cracks, shards falling away.
Yes!
