Page 7 of I’m The Worst

He pulls out a lock-pick set.

When he comes closer, I flinch. The shackles scrape as I twist my wrists, pulling away on instinct. He hesitates, then starts on the locks without a word.

“Who are you?” I ask through a scratchy throat. “What’s your name?”

He keeps his focus. “Wolff.”

“Wolff?”

No response. I study his face. His strong, defined jaw is covered in light stubble. A small scar cuts down through his right eyebrow.

“Are… Are we safe?”

“No.”

A click. One shackle falls away, and blood rushes back into my arm.

The other snaps free, and I stumble forward. He moves fast, unzipping the bag on the bed and yanking out a pair of dark cargo pants and a black hoodie. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. Just holds them out.

My hands fly to my neck, tugging at the cold metal still clamped tight around my throat.

“Take the collar off,” I plead as my fingers slip against the steel. “Please, take it off.”

“We don’t have time.” He pulls a pistol from the bag and slides it into his waistband.

“No.” I yank harder, and pain slices through my skin. “I can’t— I can’t wear this. Take it off. Now.”

“AJ.” His voice drops. “They could walk in any second.”

“Ple—”

He moves fast toward me. A knife flashes in his hand, the cold of the blade pressing flat against my lips. I freeze as my pulse spikes.

“Shut. Up. We’re still in this goddamn shithole. I’m trying to get us out alive. So stop fucking arguing with me, Autumn Jane.”

He spits my full name like it tastes wrong and quickly slides the knife under the thin strap of my dress. One sharp pull. The fabric parts, pooling at my feet.

My palms slam into his chest, and I shove him—hard.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive.” He thrusts the clothes at me again, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder. Anywhere but at me. “Get Dressed. Now.”

My chest heaves. Rage claws its way up through the terror.

“You’re an asshole.” I rip the pants from his hand.

“I’m the asshole saving your life.”

Eyes narrowing, I bite out, “So I should be grateful you raped me on stage in front of⁠—”

His fist buries in the wall next to my head, and I flinch.

“You’ve got thirty-fucking-seconds to get dressed before I do it for you.”

His threat sucks the air from my lungs. I don’t wait.

The pants hang loose around my hips. The hoodie swallows me whole, brushing mid-thigh. Before I can reach for the shoes, he tosses them at my feet without a word.