Page 49 of Captive Prize

Something I’d never had much of.

What did I have?

I looked around the room. Nothing. Just me in a not-so-rickety chair. And I was too damn weak to rip the arms off.

With a deep breath, I looked around again. Desperate.

If I was still here when Roman came back in, it would be worse. So much worse.

I yanked at one of the arms again. It wiggled—but held fast.

That gave me an idea.

I might not be able to rip the arm off. But maybe I could knock the whole thing over.

It was stupid. But when a girl ran out of smart options, she used whatever she had left.

I wrapped my fingers around the wooden armrests and shifted my weight from side to side.

The chair rocked. Groaned.

I threw my body into it, over and over.

Each time it landed back on all four legs, I cursed and started again.

It took more effort than I thought it would.

The manacles chafed. Sweat covered me. My lungs burned. My throat screamed.

But I kept going.

Finally, the chair tilted far enough. My stomach lurched.

I twisted to control the fall—but I was too late.

The chair slammed into the desk. My shoulder hit first. Something on the desk tumbled to the floor as I went down with it.

The bang echoed through the room.

White-hot pain exploded through my shoulder, sending shockwaves down my back and into my ribs.

I winced. That was going to bruise—badly. Maybe worse.

There was a real chance I might’ve cracked something. Maybe even started to bleed inside.

If I was seriously injured, it would take me out faster than whatever Roman had in mind.

All that work—and still neither of the damn arms broke.

Now I was chained to a chair on my side. Possibly injured. With even less mobility than before.

Fuck my life.

Then—miracle of miracles—the door opened.

A guard rushed in, gun drawn.

“What the hell is happening?” he shouted, sweeping the room with his weapon. Then he saw me.

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