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I don’t reply, rounding his shoulders with my arms. That was the most unconvincing I’m mad with you that I’ve ever heard. He lets out a deep growl, rolling his tongue, exploring my mouth carefully as he walks me back.
‘We can spare a few minutes,’ he says, taking me down to the bed and smothering me. ‘Just a few minutes.’
I grin to myself, accepting and delighted, feeling him taking my arms and pushing them to the headboard. ‘Hmm,’ I hum, lacing my fingers with his and squeezing. His kiss is deep and soft, his body heavy atop of mine. It feels so good. So right. As ever, I’m lost in my corrupt fiancé and his corrupt world.
‘Sorry, princess.’ He lifts and I hear the clanging of metal, my wrists suddenly trapped above my head.
‘What?’ I look up and see a pair of handcuffs securing me to the bed. ‘No!’ I wriggle and the metal cuts into my wrists harshly. ‘Becker!’ I feel the mattress move and shoot my eyes down to find him standing at the foot of the bed. ‘What are you doing?’ I shout incredulously.
‘Leaving you here where I know you’re safe, that’s what.’ He stalks across the room and hauls up a backpack from the floor, grabbing the map.
‘Becker, you can’t.’ I wrestle with my restraints, flipping and twisting on the mattress.
‘I fucking can,’ he says on a laugh, throwing the bag over his shoulder and making his way over to me. ‘Did you really think I’d take you with me?’
‘Yes!’ I shout. ‘This isn’t fair!’
He reaches for my hair and pulls off my wig, tossing it on the chair in the corner on a disgusted look. ‘That’s better.’
‘Becker.’
‘I love you.’
‘Fuck off!’
He smiles at me, his look, annoyingly, rampant with love. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’ He stalks to the door and swings it open, looking over his shoulder at me. ‘And just so you know, I’m going to spank you stupid when I’m back.’ The door slams and he’s gone.
‘Becker!’ I hiss and spit all over the bed, throwing my body up violently for a few long, pointless minutes until I’m out of breath and my muscles ache. ‘You bastard!’ I scream. My anger is potent, my body buzzing with fury as I lay on the bed, restrained, with only my wild imagination to keep me company. I hate him. Hate him! I take a few moments to calm myself down. Now I don’t feel guilty for doubting him. My instinct didn’t let me down.
I start inching my body down the bed as far as I can and gripping my jeans between my feet. I have to virtually bend my body in two to get them above my head, but I manage. It takes some serious patience and time, but I eventually position my pocket by my hand. And, with a smug smile, I pull out the little silver key that I found in his bag.
Fuck you, Becker Hunt.Chapter 41It seems that was the easy part. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here wrestling on the bed to get the right angle. A few minutes? A few hours? Every tiny noise I hear beyond the door has my heart beating faster as I hiss in pain, the metal of the cuffs cutting into my flesh. What if Brent’s in Rome? What if he finds Becker? My thoughts are spiralling, my anger fast converting into worry. What if I never see him again? Annoying tears of frustration start to pinch the backs of my eyes, hindering my task. It’s getting the better of me.
I try to force my strung muscles to relax, my neck aching terribly, straining to see what I’m doing. ‘Goddamn it,’ I yell, stretching that little bit more, my muscles screaming. But then a noise from outside freezes me, and I hear a lock click. My eyes land on the door just as it moves a fraction, pushed open a little way. Oh, thank God. My veins drain of apprehension. He’s back.
Yet when the door opens the rest of the way, I find I’m not looking at Becker at all. ‘Brent?’ I gasp.
He stands at the threshold of the room, looking at me shackled to the bed, his face a picture of perplexity. ‘Eleanor?’ he questions, taking in my cuffed hands.
Fuck. What now? My mind starts to sprint, but it doesn’t give me a clue of what to say. What I do know, though, is that he can’t make me talk. I won’t say a thing. And I’ve quickly looped into the fact that if Brent is here, he isn’t tailing Becker’s arse.
‘Where’s Becker?’ he asks, approaching the bed.
I slam my head back down to the pillow defiantly. ‘Fuck off, Brent.’
He chuckles, and it’s cold. ‘Your sass. I love it.’
I want to close my eyes, but that would be stupid. I need to keep my eye on him. Jesus Christ, I’m helpless.
