“Stop,” he says, without looking up from his computer.
I pause, just long enough for him to settle back into whatever code he’s studying. Then I jerk my chain three times fast. Wait for almost a minute. Pull once.
I want to keep things unpredictable. I don’t want him able to ignore me.
I’ve just finished two sharp tugs when he stands up from his desk. Moving with the efficiency of an apex predator, he strips his belt from his black jeans. His fingers are icicles as he wrestles my arms behind my back. He lashes my wrists together with the cool efficiency of a surgeon making an incision.
I try to kick him. When he neatly side-steps my foot, I sprawl in an effort to trip him. He spares me one long, disappointed glance, and then he returns to work.
Howling behind my gag, I thrash like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum. I scream that I hate him. I vow I’ll get revenge.
And finally, exhausted, I stare up at the framed painting on the wall, the crimson flower with its coal-black heart. I wish I’d never swapped out the artwork. I should be staring at a piece of meat. That’s how he’s treating me.
I fall asleep to the even sound of his breathing and thespatter of his keyboard, spraying out whatever code he thinks is so important.
When I wake, I’m not sure how much time has passed. Stretching, I realize I’m curled around down pillows, three or four of them, almost as if I’m in bed. A blanket covers me, something light, something soft. Opening my eyes just a slit, I can see the light fixture on the ceiling, the bulbs glowing with a warm golden light.
Someone—it must be Wolf—left the light on.
But I’m still leashed to the steel stand. My hands are still tied behind my back. My leg aches where Dr. Patel left his stitches.
And my bladder is turning my predicament into something of an emergency.
Groaning, I struggle into a sitting position. My blanket slips to my waist. Blinking hard, I focus on Wolf’s desk across the room.
He’s holding up one hand, a silent command for me to wait. I consider screaming a protest, but my throat is still raw from last night. I think about kicking the rack again, but I’m afraid I’ll lose control of my bladder.
Just last night, I scrubbed the words—Fuck You—from my chest. Just last night, he took me to meet the Andersons. Just last night, we laughed together over pot roast and chocolate cobbler.
I was wrong, deciding to cut. He’d set a rule. I’d made a promise.
But his response is insane. His need for control is pathological. I’ve married a feckin’ madman.
I’m running away, the first chance I get.
I’ll need to free Granny too. Take her with me. Take Mrs. Watson too, if she’ll come. Find another nurse, if that’s what it takes.
I can go back to Baltimore. To Da. He’ll have to take me in.He won’t tolerate anyone insulting the Canton Crew, the way Wolf has insulted me. He needs my money.
I think.
I hope.
I pray.
“Jesus…”
My eyes fly open. I wasn’t aware that I’d closed them. I didn’t realize I’d looked away from my captor.
Wolf kneels beside me. His face is pale against his black turtleneck, dark bristles prickling his jaw, as if he hasn’t shaved in days. Purple stains the stretched skin beneath his eyes, making him look bruised. The man barely sleeps—I know that—but he looks like he hasn’t been to bed in months.
“Kate…” he says, reaching for my bound wrists. When I can’t keep myself from flinching, he closes his eyes. Takes a steadying breath. Opens them and forces himself to work his belt free.
He supports my arms, holding them steady when my instinct is to gather the blanket close around my naked body. “Hold on,” he says. “Give the blood a chance to flow back.”
He’s helped me this way in the dungeon, supporting me while my body adjusts to freedom. This time, though, I’m not lost in post-orgasmic bliss. This time, my brain screams that I’m in danger.
He must see that, because he strips off his sports jacket, handing it to me so I can cover myself. My arms protest, though, so he has to help me, feeding my hands through the sleeves like I’m a helpless child.
