Page 4 of Break Me
2
EMMA
Something rumbles beneath me, loud and uneven, yet familiar and soothing. A train, I realize, finding comfort in the knowledge. I love riding the night train. Trevor and I have been doing that a lot on this trip through Europe. But something’s off. Something in my body. My joints ache as if I’ve been lying in the same position for too long, and it seems I’m on the floor instead of a mattress. Something digs into my wrists and ankles as I try to move. Rope, I realize to my horror. My wrists are tied up behind me, and so are my ankles. I try to stretch out my legs, only to realize a third piece of rope is connecting the two bindings behind my back, keeping my legs folded.
My eyes fly open, and I blink against the sharp light of a brightly lit passenger car. Old red seats, brown curtains framing windows blackened by the night outside, and a single passenger. He’s leaning back in his seat beside me, feet up and a phone in his hand—the man from the bar.From my hotel room.Humor lights up his hazel eyes as he sees me watching him.
I try to say something, but my mouth is stuffed, and all I manage is nonsensical sounds.
“Sorry, no soundproof walls on the train, so I had to gag you,” he says.
Swallowing against the dryness in my throat, I scream, but the fabric takes half the sound.
He huffs a laugh. “No one’s gonna hear that. It might not be soundproof, but we have the whole car to ourselves.” He waggles his brows. “VIP.”
I scream again, this time so hard it hurts my throat. The sound morphs into a dry cough that has me heaving and writhing as I struggle not to choke on the fabric. But it’s impossible. The scratchy sensation keeps me coughing, and panic has me jerking against my restraints as I draw the fabric deeper, making my gag reflex stutter.
My face heats, and tears pool in my eyes as I stare up at him with desperation.
Taking his sweet time, he gets up and sinks to his haunches beside me, grabbing my chin to hold my face still. “Do you promise not to scream if I remove the gag?”
I nod frantically as I jerk and strain, feeling like I’m about to choke on either the fabric, my shallow breaths, or my own vomit when I lose control of my gag reflex in a few seconds.
He rips the tape from my mouth and pulls the fabric out, and I buck forward, heaving for air but barely getting any.
“Easy there.” He presses a hand to my arm to keep me from squirming too much. “You’ll pass out if you don’t calm down.”
I barely hear his words. Panic has me in a vise, and the sensation of choking keeps me coughing and gagging.
When he wraps his fingers around my throat and squeezes, I go even more wild. But instead of blocking my airway, he’s pressing the sides. A dizzy sensation descends over my mind, sucking out my strength in an almost pleasant way. The panic recedes as my mind blurs. I’m drifting on the verge of consciousness when he releases the pressure and grabs my chin instead. Leaning down, he gives me the full force of his commanding gaze. “Breathe,” he says, a long, assertive word that spurs instinctive obedience, making me draw in a large gulp of air. “Again,” he demands, making me go a few more times until I can breathe somewhat calmly on my own.
“Good girl.” He pats my cheek in a gesture that’s more like a few soft slaps. Reaching behind him, he grabs a water bottle and unscrews the cap. “Drink.” He helps me lift my head as he holds the bottle to my lips. Half the contents drip down the sides of my mouth, onto my pink T-shirt, as I drink, but all I care about is quelling the raw feeling in my throat.
Once the bottle is empty, he lowers my head back to the floor. I just lie there for a while, breathing heavily as I stare into space. When I finally recover and my breaths work on their own, I stare back up at him. He’s still on his haunches, leaning an elbow on the seat beside him. The sight of him brings my heart to a thrumming rhythm, and my eyes flicker to the other end of the car as I consider screaming again.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says, reading the thought on my face. “I’ll stuff your mouth again, and this time, I won’t take out the cloth until you’re choking on your own vomit.”
I gulp, clamping my mouth shut.
Keeping his eyes trained on me, he gets up and sinks back into his seat. After a few minutes of watching me distrustfully, he turns his attention to his phone, glancing back at me every now and then as I squirm on the floor, trying to get more comfortable until I realize it’s not possible.
“Who are you?” I ask once I feel somewhat certain he won’t gag me on a whim.
“Mikhail,” he says without lifting his gaze. “But you can call me Sir.”
“Where are you taking me?”
Looking up from his phone, he cocks an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to know?”
I stay quiet. Because I don’t think I do. I’d rather close my eyes and enjoy sweet oblivion for as long as I can.
But terror keeps hovering at the edges of my mind, and before long, I’m pulled back to the room and my terrifying reality as someone enters the car. An urgent need to act rises within me as I see a fat, balding conductor stop just inside the door.
Mikhail gives me a warning look as I stare back and forth between him and the conductor.
“Ten more minutes, Mr. Pavlov,” the man says in broken English and roams his gaze over me.
I beg him with wide eyes, not daring to say a single word as I feel Mikhail’s watchful attention on me. But the conductor doesn’t show a flicker of compassion. If anything, all I find in his face is hunger.