by Dori Lavelle
My breath is trapped inside my lungs as I open my eyes. I see only darkness. Thick, heavy, impenetrable darkness.
No, it can’t be. He won’t do that to me. He won’t kill me in the worst way possible.
The tips of my fingers come into contact with soft, slippery fabric. I press my hand into it. There’s something hard on the other side.
I draw in a short, frightened breath. The air smells like the interior of a brand new car.
During a moment of denial, I want to believe I’m in the trunk of his car. But I can’t be. There would be a bit more space; I’d be able to hear the rumble of the car as the wheels met the road. I’ve never been in the trunk of a car before, but I imagine it would feel different too. I could be imagining it, but in between the smells of fabric and wood, I think I smell something else. Something damp, like earth.
Time to stop hiding from the truth. It’s right here with me, staring me in the face. I can breathe it, hear its whispers. It has Damien’s voice.
You’re exactly where you think you are, rosebud. Inside a pretty coffin.
Opening my mouth, I fill my lungs with thick, suffocating air. It exits as a scream. The piercing sound bounces off the walls of the coffin, remaining with me.
My heart slams hard against my chest as I feel frantically around the coffin, looking for a way out. Panic is clawing at my spine. Finding nothing of use, I scream until my throat is sore and I’m out of breath. My feet slam against the cushioned coffin walls. I try not to think about how deep underground I am, how long I still have to live.
In a flash, I remember an interview I gave as a model a few years back.
What’s your greatest fear? the interviewer had asked. I needed a moment to respond, turning the question over in my head, searching for the right answer. I peeled back several layers of superficial fears to get to the darkest one. Death, I said to the camera.
The interviewer dug deeper, wanting to know what it was about death that terrified me so much. I told her I was not so much terrified of the other side, but of the journey there. I was scared of the pain of dying. What would be the worst way to die? she prodded. I told her what terrified me most was the thought of being buried alive.
And now that fear has come true, lured out of its hiding place by Damien.
There’s no doubt in my mind he listened to the interview, and probably many others. Holding my worst fears in his hands gives him the ultimate power, the ammunition to destroy me. A quick death would be too easy. He wants me to die at the hands of my worst enemy—my most deep-seated fear.
My fear of being buried alive started with a documentary I watched many years ago, which detailed the phenomenon. Some of the people had died, while others had managed to escape. Those who died were found to have contorted bodies, and nails torn off their fingers and toes. The expressions on their faces had been ones of utter terror, the fears they had wrestled with before death etched into every inch of their skin, frozen there forever.
Taking deep, calming breaths, I replay what I remember of the documentary inside my head.
Several experts shared their opinions on what a person could do should they find themselves buried alive. One thing they all seemed to agree on was that it’s best not to scream, as doing so would diminish the oxygen supply inside the coffin. Try not to panic, they’d said. Well, to hell with that.
Another wave of panic washes over me from head to toe, leaving me trembling. Something slithers beneath me, warm and wet, giving the air a sharp tang. My urine.
Tears block my throat and trickle down the sides of my face. My hands are bunched into fists at my sides, my eyes squeezed shut. Why didn’t he just shoot or strangle me? If he wanted the life to drain out of me slowly, he could have stabbed me and left me to bleed out. It would have hurt, but not as much as this. Not knowing how long I have left scares me more than anything.
Where is he now? Is he standing over my grave, hands in his pockets, as he waits for me to die? Or is he back at his mansion, enjoying a meal, carrying on with his life?
I count my breaths as I wait for a miracle to happen. But nothing happens. Not one sound comes from the other side of the coffin. There’s nothing but silence.
I could be imagining it, but I feel as though the air supply inside my coffin is diminishing. Anytime now I could die from asphyxiation.
My urine is making me itch. I shift a little to scratch my bottom. In doing so, something hard presses against my right buttock. Did he leave some kind of object inside the coffin? Then I realize what it is—the penknife Marissa gave me.
I almost choke on my own breath as I reach under me to pull it out of my back pocket. I had planned to use it on Damien if it came to that. I never thought I might have to use it to free myself from a coffin—if that’s even a possibility.
Knife in my fist, I stretch my arm as far from my body as it will go. I flick the knife open, praying I don’t stab myself.
I’m holding my breath as I slash through the fabric above me. I manage to cut my way through, until the steel blade meets wood. No matter how hard I scratch and stab through it, the wood remains intact. Damien must have chosen the most robust coffin available. After several failed attempts, my hand flops to my side in defeat.
Not ready to give up yet, I draw in a few shallow breaths, bite my lip, and try to push against the cover of the coffin. It doesn’t budge.
I’m left with two options: lie here and wait to die as the oxygen drains out of the coffin and leaves my body to disintegrate, or do the one last thing I have power over. In fact, one of the experts from the documentary had mentioned victims could do this as a last resort.
If no one comes for me in the next few hours, the only way to escape from this fear is to make friends with death, to see it as an escape, and not eternal doom. The knife won’t get me out of the coffin, not physically, but it could make my death come quicker, saving me the torture of a long struggle, of waiting for my own body to waste away.
It’s a way out. But the thought of suicide is terrifying, so I decide to wait as long as possible. Maybe someone will come for me. Maybe Damien will come to his senses and dig me up again.
The wait brings nothing, and soon, fear thickens inside my veins once more. I’ve run out of options.
Running a thumb over the cool blade of the knife, I try to accept that I have to die. It’s just not going to be the way Damien planned it. That could be a little victory on its own. He stole my freedom, but in the end, I can snatch it back by making one last choice he can’t control. I will be the one to choose when I take my final breath.
Armed with that knowledge, I’m a little less afraid of the pain that will surely accompany what I’m about to do.
I wait a few minutes more. When all I can smell is damp earth, fabric, and wood, and all I can hear is silence and the beating of my own heart, I grit my teeth and bring the knife to my wrist.
The first cut is the hardest, the pain so severe it almost knocks me out. But I move on, slicing into my flesh over and over.
I don’t see the blood, but I feel it draining out of me—warm, thick, sticky—along with my life. In my mind’s eye, I picture it staining the fabric, which I can’t see, but imagine to be white or cream.
I scream out in agony, but I don’t stop pressing the blade into my skin. With each cut, I pray for a quick death. Finally, as my mind grows foggy, I drop the knife. Soon, the pain fades into the distance. My body lightens as life gathers me into its arms and places me into the welcoming hands of death.
Epilogue
Damien Steel curses under his breath as he downs his last glass of whiskey. In the dark room, he glares at the empty bottle on the table in front of him, the glass illuminated by the light of the four screens in front of him.
As planned, the tiny night vision cameras he’d had installed inside the coffin give him a view of Ivy from every angle. He doesn’t even need to zoom in to see the fear swimming in her eyes as they widen at the same time her mouth forms a circle.
He turns the volume off so he can’t hear her screams—he doesn’t want to. But he feels them vibrating through his body, slicing at his heart, drawing blood.
It’s too late now. There’s no going back.
He runs a rough hand through his already disheveled hair and leans forward. He picks up a bottle of pills, his escape from reality. He pours a few into the palm of his hand, then picks up his whiskey glass and lifts it to his lips, only to remember it’s empty. Enraged, he hurls it against the wall behind the computers and watches the shards of glass rain to the floor of his office.
“How many more sleeping pills can you swallow? You can sleep, but you’ll always wake up to face reality.”
Damien crunches the pills with his fist. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to see this is not what you really want. I know it’s not my place, but I can no longer sit back and watch you self-destruct.”
Damien fills his lungs with stale air and releases it in a puff. “You know what, Adrian? You’re right about one thing. It isn’t your place.”
“That’s too bad.” Adrian moves further into the room and pulls out the second leather chair. His gaze is on Damien as he takes a seat. “I’ve been silent long enough. I won’t be able to forgive myself if I keep my mouth shut. I know you’re my boss, Damien, but you feel like a son to me… like family.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to stop this madness. You’re out of control.” Adrian glances at one of the screens, then back to Damien. “Let the girl go before it’s too late. Let go of your anger. This act of revenge is hurting you more than you’re admitting to yourself.”
Laughter bursts from Damien’s chest and pours out. He kills it. “So you think this is simple, do you? You think I can just let her go.” Damien shakes his head. “And have her run to the cops? What do you think I am, a fool?”
“So what if she turns to the cops? With all the money you’ve got, you can disappear, start over anywhere else in the world.” Adrian places a heavy hand on Damien’s shoulder. “You have to stop this, or—”
“Or what? You’ll turn me in?” Damien narrows his eyes.
“I could never do that to you. I owe you too much. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. What kind of employer gives his employee a liver?”
“Why do you keep bringing that up? I told you I didn’t expect anything in return.”
“Exactly. Deep down, you’re a good man. You’ve had a rotten life in many ways. Your first wife’s betrayal and death broke you. But you can let go of the anger now, the poisonous revenge, and start living again. Damien, let the girl go.”
Damien raises his feet onto the table and tilts his head to the side as he watches Ivy pull something out of her back pocket. Distracted, he looks back at Adrian. “You didn’t answer my question. What will you do if I don’t let her go?”
“I’m out. I’ll work anywhere else for you. I’m sure they could use an extra guard at Steel Enterprises. But I will no longer be able to get my hands dirty.” He sighs. “And I can’t keep lying to my wife. Hanna is starting to ask too many questions. She’s not stupid, you know. She doesn’t believe Ivy is mentally ill anymore.”
Damien grinds his teeth silently, the back of his throat throbbing with anger. “Don’t you dare say a word to her.”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut if you let Ivy go. This started out as an act of revenge, but you’ve fallen in love with her. I know it. You don’t really want to hurt her.” Adrian rises and plugs his hands into his pockets. “Don’t turn into him. You’re not a monster, Damien.”
Damien squares his shoulders and folds his arms in front of his chest. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might enjoy being a monster?”
“I find that hard to believe.” Adrian walks to the door. “I’ll be at the office if you need me. I’ll always be there for you, but as I said, I can no longer get my hands dirty.”
“That’s fine. You’re right. You’ve done enough.” Damien swivels his chair so he’s facing Adrian. “I’ll finish the job alone. It’s too late to turn back now. It’s time for her to die.”
END OF BOOK 2
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Also by Dori Lavelle
His Agenda Series (Dark Romance Thriller)
Fatal Hearts Serial (Dark Romance Thriller)
To Live Again Serial (Contemporary Romance)
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