As the bruised flesh around her windpipe contracted, it all came rushing back.
Clay.
His hand at her throat.
The world going black and the certainty that she was about to die.
To die without seeing Jasper again, without being able to tell him she loved him, or without having the chance to write that letter she’d always meant to write: the one that thanked him for transforming her heart and giving her the most beautiful years of her life. She’d started the letter a hundred times, but it seemed dangerous to write words meant only to be read if she died before her son was old enough to have the conversation in person. It was like writing a will. She’d never done that either, not wanting to tempt fate by preparing for the worst.
It was magical thinking at its worst and she suddenly wished she’d put it in writing that she wanted Hannah to take Jasper, on the off chance that Dominic decided not to honor her wishes or if he were intercepted by her father before he could reach Hannah in Samoa. If she got out of here alive, the first thing on the agenda was finding Jasper and finding a place to hide. The second would be getting a will drawn up and arrangements made to protect Jasper from the madman his biological father had become.
Her head rolled to one side and then the other, searching for signs of life, relaxing only slightly when she saw that she was alone.
Clay wasn’t here, but he would be back, she had no doubt about that. And when he returned he might decide to finish the job he’d started. She had to think and think fast. It didn’t matter that a part of her would always be in love with the man she’d known; Clay wasn’t that person anymore. He was her enemy and had to be treated as such.
In the old days, that would have meant total destruction, annihilation from the inside out, and maybe a few bombs planted in his everyday life for him to stumble across later. Now, it meant running as far and as fast as she was able and being prepared to hide so well Clay would never find her again.
But she wasn’t going anywhere as long as she was tied to this bed.
First things first. Even in times like these, it was important to attack obstacles one at a time.
Flexing her arms, she pulled herself as close to upright as she could get with her hands bound to the top of the headboard. The bed was constructed of cheap-looking wood, but it was strong enough that she wouldn’t have a chance of breaking the slat she was secured to with muscle power alone. But Clay hadn’t bound her feet. If she could find something to use to cut through the rope, she might be able to drag the twin bed across the room to reach it.
She let her eyes sweep the small space. To her left were a large window and a screen door leading outside. In the corner was a table for two, and directly in front of the bed sat a large bureau that took up most of the wall. In the opposite corner was a closed door she suspected led to the bathroom and to her right a small couch. Behind it was a kitchenette with two cabinets up top, an electric range, and a sink all crammed together.
It was a tiny efficiency situation, but meals were clearly intended to be cooked there. And where meals were prepared there would be silverware—and most importantly for her, knives.
She let her tongue slip out to dampen her lips, deciding if she were caught in the middle of her escape attempt, she could tell Clay that she was just trying to make it to the bathroom. She should have to go by now. It was only dehydration that was preventing her from being in serious discomfort.
Glancing back toward the door, making sure there was still no sign of Clay, she scooted to the edge of the bed and twisted to the left, sliding her feet onto the floor. Her knees trembled, unsteady after so many hours of disuse, but after a moment her bones found their centers and her bare feet adjusted to the cool temperature of the tile. She didn’t know where her sandals had gone, but she didn’t need shoes to escape. She’d spent half her life on the island barefoot anyway. All she needed was to get her arms free and get out of this cottage. From there she would find a way to get to help.
Strengthened by the thought, she gave an experimental tug, heart lifting when the bed slid toward her. It wasn’t secured to the floor. It was heavy, but it wasn’t far to the kitchen and there was only the small couch in her way. She would be able to make it across the room in a few minutes.
She leaned over, taking a long drink of the water by the bed, wincing as her throat muscles protested the work she was forcing them to do. But she was still dying of thirst and as soon as she was free, she wanted to be ready to run.
After her drink, she tugged the bed away from the wall and around the bedside table. A few minutes later she had dragged it past the couch and into the tiny kitchen. She stopped a few feet from the drawers, heart racing as she reached out with one bare foot and gripped the drawer pull with her toes. She fumbled the first time, but the second time she managed to slide the drawer open and was rewarded with the rattle of silverware inside.
Biting back a cry of celebration, she pulled the bed frame closer to the open drawer. She glanced down, spirits sinking when she saw only a few rusted forks, spoons, and butter knives, and one dented steak knife that looked like it had seen sharper days. But it was all she had and thankfully the rope Clay had used looked like it would be easy to cut. It was soft, silky rope, not anything course or covered with a protective coating.
She bent low, straining against her bonds as she reached for the knife with her mouth. It took a few tries and she banged her forehead on the counter once when she dropped the knife halfway to standing, but finally she had the wooden handle of the steak knife between her teeth.
Glancing back toward the door, silently thanking whatever force was keeping Clay away from the cottage, she crawled back onto the mattress on her knees, facing her hands. The rope was twisted now that she’d reversed her position—her right wrist pinned beneath her left and the rope cutting deeper into her flesh—but she could reach her left wrist easily. All she had to do was get through the rope and she would be able to free her other hand.
Using her tongue to flip the knife over, she positioned the blade and clenched her jaw, teeth digging into the handle as she bent over, bringing the blade to the rope. She sawed back and forth with short, sharp jerks of her head. Almost immediately, she was rewarded with frayed, fuzzy strands of white fluffing around her mouth.
She got through most of the first loop and moved on to the second, hoping that if she hacked far enough through all three lengths of rope she would be able to squirm her hand free without risking cutting herself with the rusty knife. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a tetanus shot and it might be a long time before she was able to get to a doctor.
She didn’t even know if she was still on Ko Tao. She’d been unconscious for at least one night, maybe more. Clay could have taken her all the way to Bangkok in that amount of time, but judging by the smell of the breeze rushing in from outside, she would bet she was still on the islands.
But it might be a different island, one without a large local population and no medical clinic. Still, there had to be a way back to civilization. Clay had brought her here somehow. With a little luck, she would be able to use that same method to get herself out. She could hotwire a car, drive a boat, and fly a plane. She was uniquely equipped to survive something like this, a fact she kept repeating to herself as she hacked through the second length of rope and started on the third.
Whatever knot Clay had used, it was elaborate. Each length of rope encircled her wrist separately and was secured before being joined to a more intricate knot between her wrists. She was halfway through the third rope and already planning her dash to the front door when she heard footsteps on the gravel path outside.