“I, ah…” God, the thought of cutting someone made my stomach lurch. Could I end a life? I’d done it once before and swore never to do it again, but it also hadn’t been with a knife. I glanced down at the blade stained with blood.
But if it meant escape? Freedom from my sick husband? Could I do it? I dragged my eyes back to his and nodded.
“Hey.” He cupped my chin, his chest inches from mine. “Don’t think about it. It’s you or them.”
I nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay.” I could do this. I had to.
“This isn’t going to be pretty.”
“I know.” And I did. Nothing was pretty about this place.
He gave an abrupt nod then pulled a gun from the back of his jeans. He opened the door to the stairwell and waited a few seconds, head tilted, listening.
He nodded to the camera up in the corner, which slowly turned in our direction. “Hits us in five seconds. No way to avoid it. When it does, all hell is going to break loose. We haul ass. Don’t stop no matter what you hear or see. When we get outside, run like hell to the north wall—on the far right of the gate—someone will be there to help you.”
Climbing over the stone wall surrounding this place was impossible. I knew from experience. Even with a rope to haul me up the twelve feet, it would take too long, considering Anton’s special guards would be hunting us like dogs.
He glanced up at the camera again before shoving me ahead of him. “Go!”
I ran as fast as I could up the stairs. My legs shook, knees wobbled, and my lungs cried for more oxygen as the panic ate it up.
I tripped on a stair and began to fall forward when his hand grabbed my elbow. His momentum kept us going as he half-dragged me up the stairs.
One flight.
Two flights.
Ground floor.
A piercing alarm sounded.
We stopped at the locked door leading into the hallway, which led outside. There was running and shouts below us in the stairwell. I knew the protocol; the place would go into lockdown and we’d never escape.
“I don’t have the code to unlock the door,” I said. Anton had changed them after the Scars escaped, and this time, he hadn’t given them to me. All the doors leading onto the ground floor were locked.
“Figured that. This doesn’t always work with security systems, but it did on your cell.”
He called my bedroom a cell.
Cold, sterile, and with nothing personal. Since I was ten years old, my bedroom had been four white walls, a bed, and a bathroom.
Once, one of Anton’s men, Roarke, had given me a novel called Pride and Prejudice. I’d read it a hundred and fifty-two times and would have again if my husband hadn’t found it beneath my mattress.
The Scar let go of my elbow and stood in front of the code box while I pressed my back against the wall, catching my breath.
I held the knife with both hands in front of me.
A door slammed on the floor below.
We had to find another way. There wasn’t enough time. “We need to—”
“Babe, shut the fuck up for five seconds.” He stood, calm and composed, staring at the code box as if he was thinking about what to do.
I stayed quiet despite the subtle wave of defiance that rose at his harsh words. A defiance that had been crushed until I had nothing left to fight except a shell of existence that had been cracked and chipped at for years.
Who I’d been had been eaten up by my own body, not because it was my choice, but because it had been my survival. Now, I was so far within myself, I couldn’t find my way back.
The code box turned a bright orange and smoke billowed around it before it sparked and hissed. My eyes widened as his eyes changed, melting away the black until they were solid gold with a red dot in the center.
What the hell?
Oh, my God. Could Scars do that? How could he do that?
A click sounded and the door unlocked. Holy shit.
He held out his hand, and I put mine in his. He pulled me through the door, down the hallway, and then pushed me ahead of him.
“Go,” he ordered. “Run.”
I hesitated as he aimed his gun at the deserted hallway behind us. Suddenly, two men barreled around the corner, and he fired off two shots. Both went down in quick succession.
“Go!”
I whirled around and ran as fast as my quivering legs would go.
The gun went off again and I staggered, putting my hand on the wall while looking over my shoulder for him. He was bent over one of the men he shot, checking for something.
I turned and ran again.
“Babe. Fuck. Stop,” he shouted.
The door to my right flung open and a hard body slammed into me, knocking me off my feet. But I didn’t fall to the floor because an arm hooked my waist and I was jerked up against a broad chest.
There was heavy breathing next to my ear before my captor grated out, “Sweet Rayne. Where do you think you’re going?”
Oh, God, Ben. My husband’s right-hand man.
The man who took pleasure in watching me suffer. Who got off on it. I hated him. Maybe more than my husband, because in some demented way, my husband did all this for the purpose of science. It was wrong. It was cruel and I was a product of that, but Ben…he enjoyed hurting others.