Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Focus on the moment, she counseled herself. Get yourself free first. Then you can come up with a plan.
Her eyes landed on his cell phone, still seated in its charger only a few feet away. She wriggled her hands, twisting them in the cuffs as she struggled to catch hold of the metal clasp that held them closed. If she could just get hold of the damn thing…
After several minutes of painful contortions, she managed to get purchase on the clasp and slide it free. Not even bothering to remove the cuffs, she rolled toward Master John’s side of the bed and grabbed his phone, heart hammering.
What was the code he’d given her only the night before? Ah, yes. 1998, the year she was born. She punched it in with trembling fingers, relieved when the home screen appeared.
Should she call 9-1-1?
What would she say when they asked what her emergency was?
“I’m being held by a crazed Master who wants to uncover my true slave potential? I signed this slave contract, but now I want out.”
Even if they listened to her and sent someone, what would she say when the cop cars showed up, sirens blaring? Master John would be furious. What was to stop him from locking her away again before going to the door?
No, she couldn’t risk it.
212-246-8000.
Would the trainer answer when he saw the unfamiliar number? He’d have no idea who the call was from. It would probably go to voice mail.
She had to at least try. She would text. That was easier, and safer too, so she wouldn’t be overheard.
Hi, Eric. This is Rowan. You said to get in touch if I needed anything. I do. I’m not feeling safe.
She hit send while she tried to think what to say next. Almost immediately, the dots appeared indicating he was responding.
Where are you? Did you call 9-1-1? You need to get out. Give me your address. I’m on my way.
Relief flooded her. She thumbed back a rapid response.
No police, please. We’re out in Scarsdale. Thank you so much. I didn’t know who else to call. I’ll be waiting for you at Suzie’s Diner. I’m not sure of the exact address, but it’s on the corner of Palmer Avenue and Weaver.
It was the first place that had popped into her head, about a twenty-minute walk from the house. It would probably take Eric at least an hour to get there, if he even owned a car, but that was okay. She could wait in a back booth.
What if Master John came out of the study before she’d made her escape? Would he really keep her against her will? She didn’t even want to consider that possibility, but just in case, she texted,
If I’m not at the diner, please come to the house. 24 Chedworth Road. This is John’s phone, so please don’t text back. Thx.
Pulse thudding in her ears, Rowan quickly deleted the conversation and then went into deleted texts to remove it permanently. With trembling hands, she set the phone back in the charger and slipped silently from the bed.
While she was still afraid—of discovery, of John’s wrath—something had shifted inside her. It was as if she’d sloughed off a skin that had never really fit her. She felt naked and vulnerable, yes. But also wildly alive and new, as if anything were now possible.
She could hear the soft murmur of voices from the study. Good. He was on his call.
She tiptoed into the guest bedroom, wincing as a floorboard creaked beneath her feet. Pulling the cuffs from her wrists, she tossed them to the ground. Hurriedly, she pulled on some underwear and a bra. She grabbed the first top she found, an old pink T-shirt she’d had since high school with the logo Go Vikings in faded blue ink across the front, followed by a pair of jeans. Not bothering with socks, she shoved her feet into her sneakers, her ears pricked all the while for the slightest sound.
She returned to the master bedroom, the surfeit of adrenaline racing through her bloodstream making her feel lightheaded and sick to her stomach. She got out the small step stool he kept in his closet and used it to reach the top shelf, where he’d placed her purse and cell phone “for safekeeping.”
Her heart stopped as a shoebox tumbled down along with her purse, clunking loudly onto the carpet. She froze for an instant, listening hard as she forgot to breathe. Finally, hearing nothing, she slipped her bag over her shoulder. Reaching inside, she felt for her phone and her wallet, breathing a sigh of relief as her fingers closed over them.
As she rushed from the closet, she pulled out the phone and tapped the screen on the off chance there was still some juice in it. But no, it was dead. No matter. She would charge it later, when she was free.