Chapter 18

Prior to this event, the one time in his life that Marcelo had faced any kind of serious concern, he’d fainted dead away. Never again.

He shuddered as he took another lungful of putrid air, then fingered the knot at the back of his neck. It seemed tighter than what he’d dealt with in the rope.

But, unlike the rope, now that his hands were free, maybe he could rip the material. He could squeeze the stake underneath and push it out through the fabric, rending it.

That turned out to be easier said—or rather thought—than done. The fabric was so tight, it was nigh on impossible to wedge anything with the thickness of the stake between it and his skin, and he’d likely have bruises on his cheeks from the attempt. There was the gap where it cut across his mouth, but he’d hoped to avoid the risk of breaking a tooth or poking the thing out his cheek while levering the metal rod.