Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

he speaks again, I finally hear emotion in his voice. Anger. “I don’t need your forgiveness.”

“You loved her.”

“Love is selfishness. Greed. That’s all it is. I asked Sam a question earlier,” he says then. “I asked if he wants you to live. He does. Just so you know. And that’s greedy too.”

I hear something powering up, and I don’t understand what it is. Some kind of engine.

“I have one last question to ask you, Gina Royal. Would you rather die falling,” he asks me, “or frying?”

I’m on metal stairs.

Oh God. He’s going to electrocute me.

28

KEZIA

I stay quiet, partly because I believe him when he says he’ll hurt my baby, and partly because I need to wait, to let him get comfortable. I need to act when he’s in the middle of something else, when he doesn’t have time to think.

Jonathan has Gwen to focus on now. Gwen, who’s come to the lighthouse to find me. And him. And I am helpless, and I have never hated myself more than I do right at this moment.

I’m sweating buckets. I listen silently to him as he talks to Gwen. As she hits him right in the tenderest spots. Gwen has only words, and she uses them like bullets. I see them hit home.

She’s right, I think. This bastard isn’t an avenging angel. He’s a broken devil, guilty to his bones, and she’s just ripped his mask right off.

Would you rather die falling, or frying? He’s already hitting a button when he asks it, and I don’t think, I don’t plan. I try to yell, “Jump, Gwen! Jump!” It comes out as a confused, muffled mumble from the gag.

She’s already in motion. She figured it out.

But she’s so high.

The camera that was on her loses her as she falls. Jonathan’s attention swings to another monitor, and I see the blur.

I see her hit the concrete floor, and it is brutal. I yell something, I don’t even know what it is, more of a denial than anything else. Gwen, make it, you have to make it . . .

Jonathan spins his chair toward me and lunges to his feet, and I realize I’m out of time. “I warned you,” he says. “You chose this.”

I choose the moment that he bends toward me, and I pull my knees in, lever myself up with all the power I can, and twist. My bound legs sweep in a fast arc across the floor and hit him midcalf, knocking him sideways. He’s crouching, off balance, and it dumps him hard on his side. He lets out a surprised yell, and I twist back and pull my legs in and slam my boots into his face. I hear bone crunch. He screams this time and tries to roll away. I don’t let him. I throw my legs over him and pull him in toward me and slam my heels down on his crotch with all the force I have.

He doesn’t even scream this time. He gags, mouth open like a dark hole. I use my legs to pull him closer, and then I heave myself up to a standing position over him. He’s fumbling for something. I don’t have time, I have to try.

I brace myself, and I pull forward with everything I have. Weight, strength, everything. I feel that broken rib stab hard, and it takes my breath away, but I try again. Again. I feel the pipe joint give near the top, just where it disappears from view. It hurts, oh God it hurts, and I think I might break something, but that’s better than dying here, helpless.

I lunge one more time, and it snaps free.

Momentum sends me falling forward on top of the man, who’s still panting for breath. I have enough control to land knees-first on his chest, and I feel his bones snap. He stares into my face, and even now, even now, there’s nothing in his expression except a mild, strange frown.

“Stop,” he says.

I wonder how many people have said that to him—dozens, at least. I don’t stop. I roll off him and pull my knees into my chest as I do, tight as I can despite the white agony that lances through me, and force my handcuffed hands under my ass, press harder to get them around my feet, and then my hands are in front. I do it fast, but he’s starting to move with purpose again. I have to be faster.

I lunge for the knife at his belt before he can get to it and cut my feet free, then drop onto his chest again, knees first, and pin him flat. He cries out and flails, nearly throws me off. I grab the key ring and slide it off his belt loop. I’ve practiced this move before, trying to get out of handcuffs. I know how to bend my fingers, twist the key. I’m free in three seconds, and he’s bucking hard, trying to throw me off.

I lunge forward. I put the knife to Jonathan’s throat, and I think real hard about cutting. He stops moving and stares at me with wide, glassy eyes. “You could,” he says. “Or you could save your friend. She’s hurt.”

It’s a breathless, hot second of wanting to do it, but somehow, somehow I don’t. I snap the cuff on his right wrist, lever myself off, and drag him to the big, round lighthouse console. It has legs bolted into the concrete. I fasten the other end around one, and I check him for weapons. He’s clean. And he’s hurt, curled in on himself like a dead bug. Gasping against the pain I’ve inflicted.

Good.

I look at the monitors as I straighten up.

Gwen’s alive. My friend’s alive.

And I need to get to her. Fast.

29

GWEN

I don’t have a choice, not really. I leap over the railing.

I jump.

I fall.

I land hard and wrong on the concrete, hard enough I feel my lower left leg snap with a searing crack. Something