He’s not that cruel after all. I jump to my feet and scan the rest of the eight-by-six-foot space. Just enough for me to move around. The prison cells the Bitterblade family uses are more spacious. Scratch his lack of cruelty. The guy is definitely unhinged. But I already knew that when I started sleeping with him. Placing my hands on my hips, I sigh.
The bed is a freestanding single bunk bolted to the floor with a box spring mattress. Crisp white sheets. My eyebrows shoot up. I reach for my side where my knives usually hang, then remember the person who dressed me neglected to strap them onto my body. If I can rip the mattress, maybe I can furnish a weapon out of the springs. Holding on to that thought, I shift my gaze to the left side of the room. A bucket sits in the corner. I’m horrified.
“He expects me to pee in a bucket?” Chills run down my spine. I hate him. So much.
A modular wall-storage system spans the rest of the wall space. The asshole put me in his tool shed. Granted he modified things. I don’t remember the knobless door, and the bed’s location used to be where he parked the rolling toolboxes and project carts. Did he plan this?
Oh, who am I kidding? Of course he planned this. Losing my calm again, I close my eyes and breathe. Once all the blood heating my face migrates to other places on my body, I begin searching for a weapon. A screwdriver. A wrench. Something.
In minutes I’m reduced to a heavily panting mess. I’ve upended the mattress and chucked my pee bucket across my prison. It hits the door with a metallic clang before clattering on the floor. Sitting on my haunches, I run my fingers through my hair. I could break the bulb and stab him with it. But am I willing to risk being in darkness for an extended period of time? Who knows how long until he returns? Plus, he’ll definitely notice the darkness and figure something is up.
Leaving the bulb as a last resort, I fold my arms over my knees and rest my forehead against them. Think, RC. Think. I ease my head to the side so my cheek is on my forearm. A puff of breath lifts a strand of hair that falls across my face. If I take apart the modular wall-storage system, I can fashion a stake of some sort. But without a blade, I’ll have to use my hands. My mind drifts to the IC. If I injure my hands badly through the process of making a weapon, I won’t be able to drive. So karate-chopping the shelves is out of the question.
My brow puckers by the time my gaze moves to the bucket. The handle catches my attention. And like the bulb above me, a light flashes in my head. Why the hell didn’t I think of it earlier?
I scramble for the bucket and unhook the handle. Once the metal arch is free, hysterical laughter threatens to bubble out of my throat. I clamp down on my jaw. I can’t celebrate yet. Bedlam’s carelessness shocks me. He clears the space of potential weapons but leaves a bucket with a handle. Still, I thank my knight in shining armor and his consideration for my comfort. Thank you, pee bucket. I kiss the handle.
Vibrating with barely contained excitement, I sit on the edge of the bed. I position the handle so it forms a standing C between the floor and my boot. Then I stand and put all my weight on my foot until the handle bends. My balance falters, and the handle falls to its side before it folds in half completely. Cursing, I reposition the handle beneath my foot. Making sure I don’t wobble by grabbing on the side of the bed, I bend the handle the rest of the way.
“Yes!” I allow myself to say. I pick up the beginnings of my weapon. “Now for the hard part.” I remove my shirt and wrap my hand with it. The cool air skims across my exposed skin. I ignore my hardening nipples as I brace my back against the wall. Then I slip the ring and middle fingers of my left hand into the loop the folded handle made. With my protected hand, I begin to twist at the prongs until they resemble entangled vines. The first spiral is easy, but the farther up the length I get, the less malleable the metal becomes. Even with the cotton shirt, my hand is aching from the exertion. I breathe through the pain. If I want out, I need this to work.
By the time I reach the top, my teeth are gritted so hard I can hear the enamel of my molars scraping against each other. Sweat coats my body when the handle finally resembles a corkscrew. I let myself slide down to the floor, stretching my legs in front of me and panting. Despite my body heat, the cold wall causes shivers to run across my skin. Setting my nearly finished weapon aside, I unravel my shirt from my hand and put it back
