Page 147 of Missile Strike

She had to save herself.

“Yes, you do.” Isabella forced her voice to stay level. “Let me go. I’ll get you help. We’ll face this together, just like you wanted.”

Talia crouched, her hand going to Isabella’s knee. “I have to, before your boyfriend shows up and complicates everything.” A short, humorless laugh. “It wasn’t enough that you had the perfect family. Then your childhood crush came back and you got him, too?”

Something dark twisted her expression. “Danny.” She practically spat his name. “He abandons you, then comes sailing back into your life and you let him! Suddenly, he’s the one you want to spend time with. He’s the one who makes you smile.” Her gaze narrowed on Isabella. “You chose him over me.”

Isabella stared in disbelief. “You were jealous?” She shook her head. “Danny had nothing to do with this.”

“Danny had everything to do with it.” Talia’s voice rose to a screech. “Before him, you needed me.”

Then, as quickly as her temper flared, a mask of calm settled over her features. She gave the carpet a critical once-over. “That might be big enough to roll you up in.”

The overhead door rattled as it rolled up its metal tracks. Talia turned back with a frown. “Just in case.” Bending, she picked up the duct tape, tore off a strip, then advanced on Isabella, her expression hardening.

“Talia, please. Don’t do this.” Isabella jerked her head back and forth as the tape descended toward her face.

“This doesn’t need to be difficult.” Talia’s nails dug into Isabella’s cheek.

The tape clung to her mouth and skin like a prickly vine. She tried to pry her lips apart, suck in air, but not enough breached the barrier to satisfy her lungs.

The door shuddered closed behind Talia, leaving Isabella alone in her dark, claustrophobic prison.

Her nostrils flared, a strident voice in her brain shouting that she wasn’t getting enough air through her nose.

She ignored the voice and forced her breathing to slow.

There wasn’t much time. She needed to escape before Talia came back.

Danny had taught her how.

You can do this.

Making fists, she rocked her hands back and forth to loosen the tape.

She pressed her bound hands against the ornate chair back, searching for a curl, a gilded edge, anything she could use.

There. The edge right before it curved.

She dragged the layers of tape over it in a sawing motion. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Nothing.

Her lungs struggled for air. She pressed harder, shoulders screaming from the strain.

The tape stretched.

Still held.

A frustrated scream stuck in her throat. She stopped. Felt the edges of the tape.

Finally, a rough spot.

Needles of pain lanced her shoulders. She adjusted the angle and sawed again.

A small tear.

More sawing until the tear widened. She ran a finger, slippery from sweat, over the gash, measuring it.