Page 76 of Shackled to the World
He could do this…he could escape…just for the chance to see her again.
Blowing out a shaky breath, he pushed through the pain and explored the area where they’d dumped him.
Small.
Cramped.
His brain was struggling to understand the sensory information.
It was the scent of oil and gas that gave it away.
He was in the fucking trunk of a car.
As his senses returned to him in fits and starts, he heard yelling and the sounds of battle.
The guys had arrived.
They came for him.
He inhaled sharply as hope burned bright, a sob of laughter catching in his throat.
Time to leave.
He grabbed the last spark of energy he’d been saving and called his kitsune. The way he was bound would ensure he would be turned inside out if he tried to shift. If he would even be able to change…his beast was beyond tired.
He needed to get the ropes off.
As he called on his beast, the fox lifted his dark head sluggishly, then gave a small nod at his plea and closed his eyes.
A spark of fire snapped and crackled between his hands until the scent of charred rope reached him, then it sputtered and fizzled like a blowtorch that was running out of oxygen.
Then it was gone.
Hopefully those few seconds were enough.
The rest of it was up to him.
He pulled and strained, the last strands of frayed rope binding him stretched and finally fell away.
Freedom!
A sob caught in his chest.
Then pain shot through his arms and legs like railroad spikes were being slammed into them as the blood flow returned. Panting like he’d been running for a week straight, he groped for the cord to release the trunk, gripping the spindly metal cable like a lifeline, and yanked.
Only for it to come away in his hand.
He burst out laughing, more of a wheezing sound than anything else, dark humor burning like acid in his guts. “Give me a fucking break!”
He wanted to rage at the gods but couldn’t spare the energy. The fighting was getting louder. He refused to lie here helpless, waiting to be rescued…or slaughtered before he could even get out of the trunk. He ran his hands along the confined space, but knew he was too weak to peel away the reinforced frame. It was only when he searched the floor beneath him that he smiled.
Rolling to his side, he punched clear through the floor, ripping away the carpeted cardboard to the tire beneath—or more precise—the tire iron. Grabbing the slim metal rod, he wedged it into the trunk latch.
It took four tries for it to finally give and the trunk lid popped open.
Fresh air rushed inside, and he gulped it greedily.
Freedom lay beyond, just a few inches away, but he was paralyzed by fear. If he left and they caught him, they would torture him again.
