Page 26 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

Because, suddenly, I was invested.

A day ago, I barely remembered the name Daniel Hall, let alone gave a shit what happened to him.

But his pretty daughter was in my apartment having panic attacks and breaking her own damn wrist in anger about his disappearance.

Now I was locked in.

I needed to know more about him, about his life outside of his career, about his relationship with his daughter. Who clearly knew he worked with my Family, even though he was sworn to silence about the whole thing.

I’d like to say it was Daniel I was thinking of as I drifted off to sleep.

But it was his daughter at the forefront of my mind. Looking desperately like she needed someone to wrap their arms around her and tell her everything was going to be okay. Even if it was a lie.

Not me.

I wasn’t a hugger.

I wasn’t someone known for handing out kind lies.

So when my mind flashed to the mental image of her pressed close to me, her face in my neck, her sweet, powdery scent overwhelming my senses, I went ahead and figured that was a fluke.

As was the way my dreams were plagued by images of her. Not even easily dismissible ones. Like her bare body under mine, over mine, bent over in front of me.

Nope.

My ass dreamed about moving around the kitchen in the early morning hours, bodies doing a dance of familiarity as we moved around to make our morning coffee—her teasing me about my lack of cream or sweetener, me ragging on her about all the syrup, milk, and sugar.

And that dream went ahead and transformed into one where we were sitting on the couch one night, her huddled in a blanket, curled up against me, drifting off to sleep while I read my book.

I jerked awake and stared at my ceiling.

Who the fuck dreamed about domestic acts?

Sex was right there for the taking.

She was gorgeous.

I wasn’t uninterested.

But, nope. I dreamed about reading and coffee.

“Christ,” I sighed, getting up and turning off my alarm.

I puttered around for a little longer before finally dropping down into the chair.

Why?

Who the fuck knows.

I was having a good time, I guess.

Did that make any kind of rational sense? Nope. But it was what it was.

Besides, it wasn’t like I was suffering.

Sure, my ass hurt from sitting on the chair for so long. And there was a pinch in my lower back that reminded me I wasn’t as young as I once was, but other than that, I was good. There seemed to be no reason not to let this play out.

I slid my legs into the zip ties and slid the cuff around one wrist. But I kept the piece of cut duct tape in front of me until I heard footsteps coming closer. Only then did I put the tape on and bind my wrists. Loosely. Because I didn’t want to be stuck the next time she went and sliced off a finger, or got so anxious she got dizzy then fainted, whacked her head off the counter, or something.