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Chapter 8
CHRISTY
Idon’t think, I run.
Hurtling through the bedroom, I push open the bathroom door and within a couple of steps I’m already on the other side of the room and barreling into the corridor beyond. My bare feet slap against the shiny wooden floorboards as I pump my arms as fast as I can, all too aware that I’m being chased.
Hunted.
A part of me knows that I’m giving them what they want, but I couldn’t allow myself to be at their mercy a moment longer. If I’d conceded to their demands, if I’d obeyed and given in, then I would’ve lost myself forever in that moment.
I wouldn’t have forgiven myself.
At least this way I go down with a fight. What had Kate always told me?
“Never let the bastards get you down, Christy, but if they do, you’d better believe you’ll get back up and show them whattruestrength is.”
That’s how she survived. She fell as Kate and stood up as Grim.
Right now, I don’t have any weapons or fists strong enough to fight back with, but I do have courage and the will to survive, probably a whole dose of stupidity too, but my pride won’t allow me to abide by their demands. As much as I thought I could, Ican’t.
Fate can go screw her traitorous arse. I don’t care what she has planned for me. I don’t care that for the longest time I was apathetic, willing to let fate take its course, believing that there was nothing I could do to change it.
I can’t be a slave to these men. I won’t.
Reaching the end of the long hallway I pray with every single part of me that the door has been left unlocked. My hand shoots out, grabbing the handle whilst my brain registers their footsteps behind me. They’re not running, so assured of themselves in their ability to hunt.
My fingers wrap around the metal, my heart pounding in its effort to keep me alive.
“Please,” I beg.
The handle turns.
A rush of adrenaline fuels me onwards. I race into the outer hallway beyond. The wooden floorboards make way to stone floors, walls and archways. I pay no attention to my surroundings other than the innate instinct to flee from what endangers me the most. If I allow myself even the slightest hesitation, I know they’ll be on top of me in an instant.
So I keep going, pounding down stone steps, my feet practically flying across the ground as my hair whips out behind me. When I reach the bottom of the stairwell, I hit a sharp left, following the sudden cold breeze and hoping it means that there’s an exit somewhere that leads out of the castle. Right now I’ll take my chances in the forest.
I don’t look back. I keep running.
I run even though my lungs are screaming and my breath is short.
I run, feeling every inch the prey.
I run, my thoughts sprinting as fast as my legs.
I run through a huge dining hall, with a long wooden table situated along its centre and tapestries hanging on the walls. I run past an empty kitchen, the lingering smell of coffee and vanilla in the air. I run past rooms filled with antique furniture and opulent rugs. I run along corridors with paintings of men and women in various states of undress hanging from the walls. I run until time ceases to exist and I have absolutely no idea where I am.
I run until, eventually, I end up in a large square courtyard, my knees giving out and my lungs busting out of my chest as I fall at the foot of a huge oak tree that rises up out of the stone ground like some prehistoric beast.
Sweat pours from my skin as my hands slam against the ground, the thin cotton material of my dress doing nothing to protect my knees against the gravel. On all fours I hiss and wheeze, my heart and lungs battling to keep me alive. Years of dancing ballet might have made me supple, limber, but it hasn’t strengthened my heart enough to give me any real kind of stamina. I sway on my arms and legs, my hair falling forward in a shroud as stars spot my vision and blackness creeps in, threatening to pull me under.
“Get up. Run!” I hiss between every ragged intake of breath.
Pushing upwards, I stumble forward, a sudden lightheadedness making me dizzy. My hands reach out blindly towards the tree, and when my fingers meet rough bark, I press my body against it, welcoming its support. For one precious moment, I close my eyes against my reality and force myself to breathe, to rest.
“I would’ve at least stopped at the kitchen and armed myself with a knife. That’s what I did when I tried to run the first time.”
“Huh? Don’t you mean theonlytime, Eight?”
