The Survivor Read Online Jessica Gadziala

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Dark, Insta-Love, Suspense Tags Authors: Jessica Gadziala Advertisement

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Again, I stayed complete dead weight as he dragged me. He might as well have been hauling a dead body around as he pulled me toward the interior door.

To open it, he had to drop one of my ankles, and I let it go all the way to the floor, so he would have to stoop to pick it up again.

Seeing this, he let out a growl as he started to lean downward, the movement making his hand loosen on my other ankle.

It all seemed like pure instinct right then.

I couldn’t recall even thinking about doing it until it was happening.

I pulled both knees inward toward my chest, then shoved them outward with everything I had.

The impact, catching him off guard, sent him sprawling onto his butt right in the doorway.

“Fuck,” he shrieked, trying to get up even as I scrambled onto all fours, then onto my feet.

There was next to nothing in the garage.

Save for the car, whose keys could be anywhere, so that wasn’t a good option. Locking myself in wouldn’t work if he had the keys. And even if he didn’t, I couldn’t drive out of the garage. And he could break a window relatively quickly.

There were also two cans, one garbage, the other recycling.

I wondered a bit fleetingly if there were any actual recyclables in there.

Liquor bottles? Pasta jars? God, solid, thick glass. Useless for blunt or sharp weapons.

Only one way to find out.

I ran, rushing toward them, aware of his footsteps behind me.

I grabbed the recycling can, feeling it about half-filled as I flung it at my attacker, knocking into his legs, but not making him fall over.

Damnit.

The can fell on its side, its contents spilling out.

Soda and energy drink cans. A bottle of bleach. Fabric softener. And, yes, a few glass beer bottles.

I could use those.

But I had to keep running, around the car, putting it between us.

My heart was jackhammering then, my breathing fast and shallow. But, somehow, the adrenaline seemed like it was making my mind work faster, more clearly, instead of clouding it with anxiety and uncertainty.

“Stupid bitch. You’re going to pay for this,” he said, starting to rush around the front of the car as I moved toward the back.

I ducked down, using a precious few seconds to grab a bottle, then whacking it on the side of the car.

I used too much pressure, the neck I was holding barely having much left at the end.

But it was sharp.

It could cut.

Then, just like that, he was in front of me.

His arm raised at the same time as mine. Without giving it a second of thought, I thrust the bottle forward, right into his palm.

Hard.

So hard that what was left of the glass shattered and fell from my grip. But not before it sliced into his palm. Not before shards got embedded in his skin.

I took advantage of his distraction as he looked at his hand, then tried to rip the shards out.

I rushed past him, the only option being heading into the house.

I did it at a dead run, slamming the door to the garage, and locking it even as his fist started to pound on it.

I didn’t have long.

He would get through the door eventually.

I had to go.

The unfamiliar floor plan felt like a maze as I rushed through it.

But I didn’t miss the many kinds of restraints on the dining room table.

Ropes.

Chains.

Handcuffs.

Zip ties.

Whatever weapons he’d prepared to torture me with were nowhere to be seen, so I grabbed the chain instead, the weight enough to do some damage if I swung hard enough.

My fist closed tightly around that, I rushed toward the foyer.

Just as the door in the garage burst open.

My shaky fingers worked at the locks on the door.

But just as I was reaching for the knob, a hand shot out, grabbing my hair, and wringing down with every bit of strength in his body.

Despite myself, a hiss escaped me as he pulled harder still, making tears spring to my eyes.

I could barely see through them as I tried to wrench away.

My free hand reached into my bra, finding the pen, and shoving in the general direction of the man’s throat.

I wasn’t naive enough to think I’d luck out and hit an artery, but I just wanted to hurt him hard enough to make him let my hair go.

I was so close.

So so close to the door.

I just had to grab the knob, then rush outside.

Scream bloody murder.

Someone would hear.

Someone would come.

“Ah!” he screamed, releasing my hair to yank the pen out of his skin. I didn’t stop to see how deeply it had embedded, just grabbed blindly for the knob, and pulled.

I was in the doorway when it slammed into me, making white-hot pain spread up my side.

But not enough to stop me.

Not with freedom being so close.

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