“Nope.”

When the three of them have turned back to the TV, I crawl forward, shaking violently all over. My fingers fumble for the ropes behind the chair, and I feel Peter stiffen.

Please act normal. I’m trying to help you, I think desperately.

If only my powers included telepathy as well.

As Peter twists his head around, I yank hard at the final knot, ignoring the burn of the ropes against my skin.

Please, please—

The ropes drop to the floor with a soft thud, like a dead snake, and I’ve barely had time to breathe out in relief when three things happen at roughly the same time:

One, Peter rips off the blindfold, stumbles out of the chair and looks wildly around before staring at me. Right at me. His mouth drops open, then closes over the unspoken word: Alice?

Two, Andrew She’s men spin toward me and Peter with varying expressions of shock. The tall one moves first, leaping over the bed and yelling at us to stay right where we are—

Three, I throw the closest thing I can find to stop him. Which, unfortunately, happens to be a pillow.

A fucking pillow.

The pillow bounces off the seven-foot kidnapper’s shoulder as he growls and swipes at us, undeterred. I shove Peter in front of me and try to run after him to the door, but I’m too slow. A rough hand closes over my wrist, yanking me back so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if my arm’s been dislocated.

I gasp. Tears jump to my eyes.

“Where did you come from, little girl?” the man demands. His grip tightens, crushing my bones to dust. The pain is unbearable, but still I pull against him, my feet kicking out wildly, my eyes darting over the room.

In my blurred, peripheral vision, I see Peter duck past the two other men, unlatch the lock with shocking speed and fling the door open—just as they tackle him from behind. There’s a terrible crack as his head hits the wall.

The world seems to flip upside down, my stomach flipping with it.

“No!” I scream.

The tall man follows my gaze, and in the split second he’s distracted, I sink my teeth into his hand.

He releases me with a high-pitched cry and I bolt. The two others still have their attention fastened on Peter, who’s slouched against the wall, and I’m panicking about how the hell I’m meant to get around them when I remember—

The knife.

My fingers dig into my pockets, finding the cool, smooth hilt at once.

“Stand back or—or I’ll cut you,” I warn the men as I step forward, brandishing the fruit knife before me like a proper sword, praying they can’t see how badly my hands are trembling. How much I feel like a little kid playing pretend.

The two men falter—more out of surprise than fear, it seems, but whatever works.

I seize the opportunity to grab Peter and shake him. His face has gone scarily pale, and his hairline is wet with blood, but his eyes—his eyes are open. With a low groan, he rises back to his feet, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt such acute relief in my life.