“I’m already doing it,” he says.
I drive my elbow back toward his ribs.
He anticipates it.
Of course he does.
His other hand comes up, catching the motion and redirecting it, and suddenly I’m off balance, my injured side betraying me as he turns the movement against me.
“Really?” I hiss. “That’s what we’re doing now?”
“You’re not thinking straight,” he says, his voice low and controlled as he shifts behind me.
“I’m thinking just fine,” I shoot back, struggling against him.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”
He moves fast.
Faster than I expect.
One second I’m fighting him, the next my arms are pinned, his grip locking them back just enough to take my leverage away without cutting off movement entirely.
“Let me go,” I snap, twisting again.
“No,” he says.
“Hrask—”
“I’m not losing you in there,” he cuts in, his voice dropping lower, closer to my ear now. “Not like that.”
“And you think this is better?” I fire back. “You think me sitting here waiting to find out if you make it out is better?”
“I think it gives you a chance,” he says.
“I don’t want a chance,” I snap. “I want to finish it.”
His grip tightens slightly, then shifts, and I feel the restraint change as he adjusts his hold, one hand releasing just long enough to grab something from his belt.
“Don’t you dare—” I start.
Too late.
The restraint locks around my wrists, tight enough to hold, not tight enough to cut circulation, and he steps back before I can swing at him again.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I breathe, staring down at the bind.
“I’ll be back,” he says.
“Yeah?” I laugh, sharp and furious. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Yeah,” he replies, meeting my gaze.
“Untie me,” I demand.
“No.”
“Untie me,” I repeat, stepping toward him.
