Ruin (Rhodes #1) by Rina Kent

                             Articles about butchered dead girls cross my mind. I have to master all my effort to shoo them away. I won’t stumble into hysteria.

                             Think, Mae! Think!

                             “My father has money!” I blurt. The stranger’s nearness causes my hands to tremble like a train losing track. “He’ll give you anything you want.”

                             His lips curve into something similar to a smile, only nothing reaches his eyes. “Do you actually think I am doing this for money?” His voice sounds deep and composed, as intimidating as his appearance.

                             No, I don’t. But a tiny part hoped for it.

                             The seriousness of my situation slams at the walls of my psyche like multiple car crashes. I wrap my arms around my waist.

                             Oh, God. He’s going to kill me. Or maybe rape me. He’ll rape me then kill me. Then throw me in the forest in some plastic bag like useless rubbish. I’ll be another victim. A statistic.

                             Tears well in my eyes at the thought of my parents and friends receiving the news. It’ll kill them.

                             Stop. Just stop. Don’t go there.

                             I take a deep breath, preventing the tears from flowing. Crying won’t help. I won’t fall down that easily. Even if they find me dead, my family will know I fought and didn’t die like a coward.

                             My eyes roam around the windowless room, looking for a possible escape. The space is like minimalistic art. The old-fashioned dusty lamp, hanging from the ceiling, provides dim light. Its poor efforts only heighten the darkness of the grey walls. The stone keeping them together is old. It’s as if this room time-travelled from the medieval period and someone renovated it. Beside the bed I sit on, the only other objects are two metallic doors, one straight ahead and the other on my right.

                             My mind rushes, calculating the distance and which door can serve as my exit. I may be underground for all I know, but I’ll take the risk instead of submitting to the alternative.

                             When I jump up, the cold ground sucks heat from my bare feet. Dizziness assaults my head, almost knocking me back into unconsciousness.

                             I throw a glance over my shoulders as I struggle with each step. The stranger is still standing by the bed, seeming unfazed. Ripping my gaze from him, I inch to the door. To my surprise, there is no handle. I plant two shaky palms on the door and push with the little strength I have. The material is steel against my fingers. I step back then rush forward and slam my shoulder into it. The impact stings. Badly. The bones to tick in response, but I try again, and again.

                             “Are you done yet?” Hot breaths brush against the back of my neck. I jump, cowering away.

                             When in the hell did he come up behind me? Was I that preoccupied with my task to not have heard his footsteps?

                             I plaster myself against the wall, trying to blend with it and disappear once and for all.

                             The stranger stands a few metres away, one hand in his trousers’ pocket and the other resting by his side, as if posing for a formal wear photo shoot.

                             Damn him.

                             How dare he take my freedom and act nonchalant about it? What right does he have to make me go through this?