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Only, I’m not. My thoughts are scattered.

So I close my eyes and I think of Matteo’s groan in my ear. His hands on my neck. His cock inside me.

There. That’s a reason to live until tomorrow. That’s a reason to fight.

So I can fuck him and kill him myself.

What if this asshole lures him here and kills him?

No way. That’s my job.

The footsteps move onto the top floor.

I look to the window. See only the sky and the moon. There’s not a lot of light pollution. We’re not in Athens anymore.

A soft knock on the door. Then Yorgos enters.

He looks strange, in his casual outfit. Like he’s playing a cat burglar in a movie about a super-hero. His t-shirt is too tight on his broad shoulders. His jeans don’t fit quite right.

He’s still handsome, yes, but there’s something off. A cruel streak I never noticed.

“Sorry, gorgeous, I couldn’t take any chances.” He enters, but he’s not holding tea, like I expect. He’s got a bottle of ouzo and two shot glasses. “I know, you’re not going to trust me, after that, so look.” He pours himself a shot and slams it.

“I’m only taking a shot if you uncuff me,” I say.

“Gladly,” he replies.

Really? That’s… strange. But I’m not going to argue. I smile a thank you.

He pulls a handcuff key from his pocket, moves behind my back, undoes my restraints.

The cuffs fall to the floor.

He rubs my wrists like a lover offering comfort.

“How about the ankles too?” I ask.

“Sorry, no,” he says. “This has to look real. In case your boyfriend shows up while I’m indisposed.”

Huh?

He notices the surprise on my face and laughs. “I gave you too much, didn’t I?”

“What are you talking about?”

He places the bottle of ouzo and glasses on the desk and sits on the bed.

I try to turn my head, but I can’t quite look at him.

So he gets up enough to turn my chair.

I consider reaching into his pockets for a knife or punching his throat, but I don’t. Better to play nice. Especially since I’m not at full capacity.

He falls back onto the bed and places his hands on his thighs. “No. It doesn’t look right. I think I need one hand cuffed to the chair. How is that for a compromise?”

“You’re in charge,” I say.

“No. This is a collaboration. Like old times.” He winks, rises, moves behind the chair.