Page 134 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
Now comes the part that hurts.
I rock my weight again, twisting the chair leg by leg until I can tip it backward.
The fall isn't far, but I land hard, the back of my shoulder slamming against the floor, my teeth knocking together.
Pain flares down my side.
A scream claws at my throat, but I swallow it down. There is no one to hear me but the walls. And they've never been kind.
My cheek presses to the floor. I open my eyes, blinking sweat and tears. The room tilts. A small shard of porcelain glints in the broken soup.
Come on.
I drag myself closer, inch by inch, scraping my shoulder on the rough wood.
My hip catches on something, and I twist.
The rope burns into my skin. I push through it.
Finally, the edge of my fingers brush against something sharp. I curl them tight.
The shard presses into the pad of my thumb, slicing just enough to sting.
Good. I have it.
I breathe through my nose, closing my fist tight around the shard. It's slick now, a mix of broth and blood.
I adjust the angle.
Twist my arm.
Bring it as close to the wrist rope as I can manage.
The first cuts don't do much.
But I keep at it, sawing slowly, carefully.
The edge bites in, deeper this time.
The fibers start to fray.
One loop. Then another.
Pain flares again as the shard digs too deep.
I grit my teeth, blink away tears.
Gabriel's face flashes behind my eyes—his wide, worried stare, his stubborn insistence that we don't leave each other behind.
I bite my tongue and keep cutting.
The rope gives with a sudden snap. My right hand is free.
I lie still a moment, panting. The blood runs down my palm in thin rivulets, tracing the lines of my life like they're being rewritten.
I use the shard to slice through the rope on my other wrist, working faster now, being less careful. It cuts. Hurts. But it works.
When both hands are free, I shift again, bending awkwardly to reach my legs. The angle is worse. My muscles scream. My shoulders burn.
