The Dungeon Ticking Clock

​POV: Malia

​The silence in the dark had a pulse. It drummed in my ears, heavy and wet, synchronized with the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the digital timer mounted to the iron collar around my throat.

​29:58.

​29:57.

​Every tick echoed like a small nail being tapped into my skull. Beyond the cold limestone walls of Alastair’s underground vault, the air carried a constant, low vibration, a shudder in the earth that made the tiny dust motes dance in the shaft of weak light coming through the iron bar grating above.

​Then came the explosion.

​It wasn't close enough to shatter the stone, but it was deep enough to send a long, grinding rumble through the floorboards under my knees. Plaster dust snowed down onto my hair and bare shoulders.

​He was here.

​Jarrah.

​My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it felt bruised. A sob choked in my throat, but I forced it back, swallowing the iron taste of fear and cold sweat. Jarrah was tearing his way through the estate’s outer perimeter, blowing through heavy iron gates and brick barricades, fighting his way down toward me. But he didn't know about the counter on my neck. He didn't know that in less than thirty minutes, the pneumatic cylinder resting against my carotid artery would discharge fifty milligrams of liquid neurotoxin straight into my bloodstream.

​If he breached this room thirty seconds too late, he would find only a corpse with wide, lifeless eyes.

​"Think, Malia. Think," I whispered, my voice a ragged scratch against the damp dark.

​I was bound to a rusted iron radiator, my wrists clamped together in heavy, square-jawed steel shackles. The iron was aged, but the lock mechanisms were modern, installed by Alastair’s head of security. Alastair, a father who had traded blood ties for absolute control long before I ever learned how to walk.

​My fingers were stiff, numb from the lack of circulation. I tilted my head down, pressing my cheek against the cold shoulder of my canvas jacket, feeling for the raised seam along the inner collar. My teeth caught the thread. I bit down hard, yanking back until the coarse cotton tore with a sharp, protesting rip.

​With my chin pinned to my chest, I worked the hem until the tip of a stiff, six-inch length of high-tensile spring steel slipped out against my collarbone. I had sewn it into the lining three weeks ago in the quiet safety of Jarrah’s safehouse in the valley back when we thought we had more time, back when his hand had rested warm and steady over mine while he taught me how to slip a tumbler by feel alone.

​“Keep your touch light, little bird,” Jarrah’s voice echoed in my head, soft and gravelly, rich with that dark heat that always made my blood run fast. “If you tense up, you bind the pins. You have to listen to the lock like it’s breathing.”

​Tears burned the backs of my eyelids. I couldn't break down now. If I let the terror take me, my hands would shake, and if my hands shook, I was dead.

​I caught the thin wire between my teeth, carefully maneuvering it out of the fabric until I could drop it into the cupped palm of my left hand. My wrists were bound tightly behind my back, forced into an awkward, spine-straining angle against the vertical pipe of the radiator.

​Pain shot up my forearms, a dull, throb-heavy ache that flared into white-hot lightning every time I twisted my joints. I squeezed my eyes shut, gasping as I manipulated the wire with my thumb and index finger behind my back, feeling blindly for the narrow keyway of the shackle on my left wrist.

​27:12.

​The timer beeped once, a soft, clinical chime marking another passed minute.

​"Damn it," I hissed through gritted teeth.

​The wire slipped. The metal dug sharp under my thumbnail, tearing the skin. Blood welled, slick and hot, making the wire impossibly slippery between my fingers. I cursed under my breath, my breathing turning into shallow, frantic, ragged gasps.

​BOOM.

​Another shockwave rolled through the foundation. This one was closer. The dull roar of automatic gunfire clattered somewhere far above, a metallic rain of chaos echoing down the stone stairwell.

​Jarrah was moving through them like a storm. I could picture him with vivid, agonizing clarity: the dark eyes cold as flint, the line of his jaw set hard, the absolute, terrifying precision of his movement. He wasn't just fighting; he was erasing anything that stood between him and this room.

​And yet, if I couldn't open this lock, all his fury would mean nothing. He would kill every guard in this fortress only to hold my cooling body in his arms.

​I won't let you carry that weight, I thought, the memory of his lips against my temple pulling a violent, agonizing ache from the center of my chest. I won't leave you alone in the dark again.

​When I had first met Jarrah, I was a ghost running from my father’s shadow, believing that safety was an illusion and love was a vulnerability used to gut you. Jarrah had dismantled every wall I built, not with force, but with an unyielding, quiet presence. He had held me through the nightmares, touched my scars as if they were holy, and promised me a sky that wasn't choked by Alastair's smoke.

​I couldn't die in this pit. Not today.

​I closed my eyes, forcing the panic down into the pit of my stomach, turning it into cold, hard focus. I re-centered the wire in my bleeding fingertips. I slid the metal tip into the keyway.

​Touch.

​I felt the first pin. Modern lock, four pins, spring-loaded. I bent the tip of the wire slightly using the leverage of the iron cuff ring, forming a crude tension wrench and pick combined into one.

​Click.

​The first pin set.

​23:40.

​A low hum began inside the collar at my neck, the internal pump priming itself as the clock drained down. The metallic casing felt freezing against my skin, a cruel contrast to the sweat pouring down my ribs.

​"Come on," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Come on..."

​My right shoulder seized up in an agonizing cramp. The muscle knotted tightly, sending a blinding flash of pain up into my neck. I screamed through closed lips, biting my lower lip until the taste of my own blood filled my mouth. I didn't stop. I forced my wrist to turn another millimeter.

​Click.

​Second pin set.

​Above me, the faint sound of footsteps rattled the floorboards of the ceiling, heavy combat boots, fast and deliberate. Then, the distinct, thunderous pop of a close-quarters shotgun burst through the ceiling tiles, followed by the heavy thump of a body hitting the floor.

​He was in the main hall. He was inside the house.

​Jarrah.

​My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The thought of his touch, the rough velvet of his hands, the deep, grounding weight of his voice flooded through my veins, washing out the agony in my shoulder. I leaned back against the rusted pipe, using the leverage of my own bone to lift the wire into the third chamber.

​Click.

​Three.

​18:15.

​The timer chimed again. The numbers blazed red in the gloom: 18:14... 18:13...

​The neurotoxin hum grew louder, a quiet, high-pitched whine that signaled the pressure valve opening halfway.

​I put all my weight into the final push, angling the bent wire to reach the back of the cylinder. My fingers were so coated in slick blood and grime that the wire almost slipped out of my grip entirely.

​"No, no, no". I caught it between my knuckles, pressing my forehead hard against the cold, damp stone of the radiator to anchor myself.

​Outside the heavy oak door of the dungeon hallway, a heavy iron bolt slid back with a loud, echoey clatter. Footsteps began to descend the stone stairs, not Jarrah's fast, lethal stride, but a slow, calculated, heavy heel-click that I had known and feared my entire life.

​Alastair.

​He was coming down to finish it himself before Jarrah could reach the lower levels.

​Panic surged like pure liquid fire through my nerves. I twisted the wire with everything I had left, feeling the tension spring yield just a fraction of a millimeter.

​15:02.

​The shadow of a man appeared against the frosted glass panel of the outer dungeon door.

​Click.

​The heavy steel jaw of the left shackle sprang open.