She yanks on the nylon, close to her neck, so it pulls on her collar. “What do you call this, arsehole?”
“That’s your leash.”
“What the fuck?”
“That’s your leash,” I repeat. “Keeping you in place like a bad dog. Until you accept the rules of this house. Until you agree that breaking them has consequences.”
“Fuck you!” she shouts.
I fake a yawn. “You really need to expand your vocabulary.”
“Let me out of this,” she says, tugging at the collar.
I dangle the padlock key. “Not tonight.”
“You shitehawk bas?—”
“And tomorrow isn’t looking good, either.”
“You can’t do this!”
“I already have.”
“You’ll have the Canton Crew to answer to!”
“The Canton Crew that hired me to run their computers? That paid me to take you off your father’s hands?”
She sputters in frustration before she shifts to another tactic. Dropping her chin coyly, she reaches toward my zipper. “My,”she says, drawing out the word. “What a long…leash you have.”
I step out of range with a disgusted sigh. I’m not playing. I’m not calling hermy dear. I’m not calling hergirl, either. I say, “You’re staying on that leash until you admit you broke your promise. Until you find some way to convince me you’ll follow the rules, going forward. The ball’s in your court.”
She scoffs. “Your mam really taught you how to treat a woman.”
Rage flashes so bright across my vision that I’m blinded for a moment. I’m still blinking away trailing sparklers as I fumble on my desk for the last tool I brought from the basement.
Kate doesn’t have a clue how much danger she’s in. “No wonder your sister keeps her feckin’ distance,” she goes on. “Can’t stand to be anywhere near a motherfucker like y?—”
I jam the ball-gag into her mouth before she says something I can’t forgive.
44
KATE
There’s nothing sexy about a ball gag.
It makes spit pool in my mouth. My jaw aches from being held in an unnatural position. I feel like I’m choking and—worse—like I can’t grab a full breath.
Wolf settles behind his desk as if he’s intent on saving the universe from nuclear war. His dark eyes narrow while he studies the monitor on his desk. His fingers fly over his keyboard. Every muscle in his body is stretched, taut, primed.
I bellow behind the gag, deep, wordless howls that form in my belly more than my throat. Wolf’s stare from behind his computer would be withering, if I gave a fuck anymore about what he thinks. He opens a drawer on that aircraft carrier of a desk and produces a sturdy pair of headphones. Thumbing a switch on the side, he settles them over his ears.
I stop screaming because I’m certain those things are capable of military-grade noise cancellation. Instead, I invest my energy in kicking the iron rack that holds my leash. I focuson landing the heel of my left foot squarely on a supporting crossbar. I want him to feel the impact all the way across the room, because last I checked, no one on earth makes vibration-canceling headphones.
My heel turns red. I keep kicking. My toes start to cramp. I kick some more. Pain shoots up my calf, then my thigh, lodging in the base of my spine. I consider kicking with my right leg, but I’m afraid I might cause serious damage to the stitches Dr. Patel took—was it only an hour ago?
Fuck it. Wolf has more stamina than I do.
I close my fists around my leash and yank. I can’t break the nylon that holds me, but I can rattle the rack. I tug over and over again, using both arms to maximize the impact.
