It’s better that he doesn’t look.

When we get into a comfortable rhythm, Dean finds my wrists again, pressing his chin into the curve of my right shoulder and hiding his face from Earl. From the other side of the room, it probably appears that he’s really into pummeling me against this pole—when really, he’s trying to set me free. I don’t miss him massaging my wrist today because I’m too distracted by the notion of escaping and finally getting out of this prison.

Please work. Please, please work.

I count down the seconds in my head, trying to keep my face focused and unreadable. It feels like more time is going by than usual and a stir of panic rumbles in my belly. I attempt to keep my breaths even, my eyes closed. I wait and wait and wait.

And then Dean pulls his lips back to my ear and says softly, “I need you to moan, Corabelle.”

Moan?

I swallow with uncertainty.

“Please,” he whispers, the plea muffled against my ear and creating more goosebumps.

I nod my head and conjure up my most convincing moan, masking the sound of the cuffs releasing behind me, hiding the evidence of our monumental win.

Holy shit, he did it. Dean did it.

I clutch the metal in my hands for dear life, making sure they don’t hit the ground and give us away. Dean takes a moment to focus on his “task” and finishes inside me a minute later. He doesn’t say he’s sorry this time. He doesn’t cry or beg for my forgiveness.

He pulls back and winks.

We wait for what feels like an eternity, when in reality, is probably less than an hour. We wait until we’re confident Earl has gone to work.

Earl has a routine. He works Monday through Friday, leaving in the morning and returning shortly after sunset. Today is Thursday, so he should be well on his way to work by now, giving us less than eight hours to get the fuck out of here.

My heart is about to burst inside my chest with anticipation and anxiety. There is a lot riding on this—there is everything riding on this. I have no idea how to get Dean out of his chains, so it’s going to take a while to figure it out. I’ve never picked a lock before in my life, let alone professional grade handcuffs.

“He’s gotta be gone by now,” Dean says to my right, prompting the nerves in my belly to do the Mamba. “You ready?”

I let out a hard breath. “I’m ready.” I finally let go of the metal and feel the cuffs slip from my wrists. It doesn’t seem real at first, so I just sit there, forgetting I can move. I can walk. I can do a freakin’ happy dance if I want to. I pull myself up to unsteady feet, pinning my gaze on Dean.