Page 73 of Taming a Ruthless Heart

I force myself to meet his gaze, my expression a blend of shame and helplessness.“I…I can’t go while you’re watching.”My tone is sweet and pleading.

He smirks, his eyes narrowing as he assesses me, but I can tell he’s considering it.Petrov is the type of man who is weak but thinks he is badass.He can be easily swayed by a woman’s vulnerability, even if only to gloat in her discomfort.

I flick my eyes to his just long enough to suggest I’m at his mercy, then let them fall again, as though I’m too ashamed to keep looking at him.

“Fine,” he huffs and steps back toward the door.“Don’t you try anything stupid, or you’ll regret it.”

I nod, doing my best to appear submissive, like a prisoner who knows her place.But the second he slips out the door, closing it behind him, I’m in motion.I dart to the metal door and press my ear against it, listening to the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.It’s a small window of opportunity, but it’s all I need.

Taking a deep breath, I examine the tray he left behind.The dull, metal spoon catches my eye.It’s not much, but I’ll have to make do with it.My hands shake, not with fear but with adrenaline as I pocket the spoon.Small victories.Every little piece I can gather to turn against him, against Igor, brings me one step closer to freedom.

When I turn back toward the door, I hear footsteps returning, heavy and impatient.I scramble to the table, grab the bowl of porridge, and empty it inside the bucket in the corner.

“Finished?”His voice comes through the thick door as a growl, low and menacing.

“Almost!”I shout back, returning the bowl to the tray.“Done!”I call back, settling on the bed again.

As Petrov reenters the room, he snorts in disgust when he looks at me, who is playing the part of the pathetic captive to perfection.

I do my best to mask a small, grim smile of self-congratulation curling at the corners of my lips.I manage to hold it in.Petrov has no idea he just gave me a tool, however insignificant it may seem to him.

“Thanks,” I mumble, looking away as if his presence overwhelms me.In fact, my mind races.Every inch of this dingy cell, every weakness of Petrov’s, every piece of intel I’ve gathered from whispered conversations and observation—each detail is fuel, a weapon in its own right.

He grunts again, snatches the tray up, and steps back through the door, leaving me alone in the dark silence.I grip the hidden spoon in my pocket, feeling the cool metal press into my palm, a reminder that I’m not entirely powerless.I have my daughter, Rose, waiting for me, and I’ll be damned if I let Igor win.I can feel the desperation mingling with something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Strength.

After the door clicks shut, Petrov’s heavy steps recede down the hallway, muffled but distinct.I hold my breath, waiting for any indication he might return, some second thought that could ruin everything.But the steps continue, then pause outside, a low rumble of conversation spilling into my cell.My mind snaps into focus.This is it.

Beneath my blanket, my hand slips to the pocket where I’ve hidden the spoon, pressing it into my palm with a fierce determination that almost makes me forget the chill of this windowless room, the ache in my body, or the gnawing dread in my stomach.It’s just a small spoon—a simple, delicate object meant to help a person eat.But in the hands of a desperate woman, it’s a lifeline, a weapon.I grip the spoon tightly, rubbing its fragile handle against the solid concrete column, filing the metal down to a sharp point—something that just might do the impossible.

I pull the spoon, turn it upside down, and press it against my fingertips as I work it into the lock that holds the chain around my wrist.My hands tremble with anticipation and fear, but I try to keep them steady, forcing myself to block out everything but the minuscule clicks, each twist and turn in the lock a small step toward freedom.My breathing slows, each inhale a calculated pause, each exhale a release of tension that I can’t afford to hold onto now.I slide my tongue along my lower lip to alleviate the dryness that has made it parched.

The faint voices outside drift in and out, sometimes rising, sometimes low and guttural.Petrov is talking with someone else—one of Igor’s other dogs, no doubt.Their laughter seeps through the door, sharp and ugly, but it fades to background noise as I focus on the pointy handle of the spoon, pushing it deeper, feeling for that last, elusive catch that could mean everything.

And then—a click.The lock loosens, and the cuff slips free from my wrist, tumbling onto the mattress with a dull, metallic clang.I freeze, my entire body stiffening, waiting.I strain my ears for the slightest sound outside that would mean they heard me inside.But the men remain too engrossed in their conversation to notice anything else.

Slowly, I rub the skin where the cuff had bitten in.My flesh is now raw and bruised.I watch the faint purple marks left behind.I savor the feeling of blood rushing back into my hand, of my fingers regaining their full range of movement.For a second, just one tiny second, I let myself relish this small victory.But there’s no time to get lost in the relief.I have to stay sharp, stay ready.

Moving as quietly as I can, I slide to the floor, pressing my back against the cold, rough wall.My mind is racing, mapping out the next steps, the path I need to take.I’m unarmed, barely dressed in a cotton summer dress, and the damp, cold air is biting into me.But there’s a fire in my chest, hot and wild, fueled by memories of Rose’s tiny hands, the weight of her head resting on my shoulder every time I rock her to sleep.I need to see her again.And I need to destroy Igor for even thinking he could take her from me.

Another rumble of voices outside the door pulls me back to the present.I tense, muscles coiling, as I strain to listen.The voices are closer now.Petrov’s gravelly laugh mingles with the rough tones of someone else.He’s bragging about something, likely the grotesque tasks he’s performed for Igor.I focus on the faint rhythms of their speech, trying to gauge their position.I need to move before they come back.

I inch closer to the door, careful to keep my steps light, silent.I can almost feel their shadows just beyond the steel, an oppressive force reminding me of what I’m up against.But I can’t afford to hesitate.Not now.

Slowly, I ease the door handle downward.It’s locked from the outside.But there’s a narrow gap beneath the door.I crouch down and slip my fingers into it, feeling for something—anything—that might help me pry it open.Just as I’m about to give up, my catch the round head of a screw on the bottom hinge.My mind races, calculating, assessing.If I can just loosen it, maybe I can create enough slack to get out.

The voices shift again, growing fainter, giving me precious seconds.I grab the spoon again and wedge it into the tiny gap between the hinge and the door frame, twisting, feeling the strain in my fingers as I force the metal to turn.The seconds tick by, each one a countdown, each twist a gamble.Sweat drips down my forehead, reminding me of the stakes, but I force myself to keep working.

At last, the screw falls and the hinge loosens, just enough for a small, hopeful creak.I move to the upper one and replicate the arduous task of unscrewing the hinge.I wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead to clear my vision before attacking the third and last hinge.With a long exhale, I lift the screw from its place.The door is held in place by the locks alone.

I press my shoulder against the metal, pushing the heavy steel door with every ounce of strength left in me.The gap widens, inch by inch, until it’s barely wide enough for me to slip through.I pause, listening again.Nothing.

Sliding through the opening, I step into the hallway and carefully push the door back into its frame.I don’t want anyone noticing its hinges are gone.At least, not before I can have a good head-start.

The corridor is dimly lit, shadowed, unfamiliar.Igor is nothing if not consistent.I bet this place is very similar to all his other properties.I just need to treat it as a maze I need to survive, a battleground where I’m finally ready to fight.

I hear a faint noise behind me and whip around, heart pounding.But it’s just the sound of pipes clanging in the walls.The building looks old, a crumbling relic of some forgotten era that Igor repurposed to serve his twisted needs.Navigating this place will be like walking around blindfolded, and every shadow feels alive, every creak a warning.

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