Page 12 of Covert Desires

This is my chance.

I need to do something before he wakes up.

It’s been a few years since I’ve had to rely on my survival skills, but one doesn’t simply unlearn one’s training—not if you were the first woman ever to make it into the elite Green Berets unit of the Special Forces. You sure don’t become a First Class Sargeant by simply rolling over and playing dead whenever someone ties you up.

This isnothow I die.

The storm howls outside, a fitting backdrop to my silent struggle.

I take one final, steadying breath, my chest tight with anticipation, and then I throw my body weight sideways, toppling the chair with a muffled thud.

The world spins, then settles as I find myself curled in a fetal position, the hardwood floor cool against my cheek.

My ears strain for any reaction from the bed.

Nothing.

Nico's rhythmic snores continue uninterrupted.

Relief washes over me, but I can't relax.

Not yet.

I clench my jaw, focusing all my energy on pressing my shins into the chair's legs.

Sweat beads on my forehead as I push, push, push.

The wood creaks in protest but holds firm.

Frustration bubbles in my chest. I need more leverage.

Tilting my feet forward, I take aim. My muscles coil, then release as I slam my heels back into the chair. Once. Twice. Three times.

Each impact sends shockwaves up my legs, but I bite back the pain.

On the fourth hit, a satisfyingly sharp crack splits the air. My heart stutters, head whipping around, but Nico remains lost to his dreams, the bathrobe splayed open across his chest.

The chaos outside masks my assault as I continue, methodically destroying the chair that binds me. My breath comes in controlled bursts, sweat stinging my eyes. Finally, the front legs splinter and give way.

A small victory, but I'm far from free.

At least I can move my legs now.

As I struggle, the zip ties bite into my wrists, a constant, throbbing reminder of my captivity. But I push the pain aside.

Focus, Kiah.

Maneuvering onto my knees, I survey the destruction around me. My once-peaceful cottage is now a battlefield of broken pottery and shattered art.

The knife from before is nowhere in sight. Nico must have learned from his previous lapse in judgment.

For a second, I consider the drawer housing my kitchen knives but I know it would be no use. My knives are blunt as shit. I usually do most of my cooking in the big kitchen at the back of the inn.

Plan B? My eyes lock on the shards of my mismatched plates: porcelain—sharp and deadly. That will have to do.

With my hands still bound behind my back, grasping a shard is a Herculean task. I twist and contort, desperation fueling each attempt.

At last, my fingers close around a triangular piece. Its edge bites deep, and I feel warm blood trickle down my palm. But I welcome the pain. It's proof I'm still alive, still fighting.

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