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But she needed to stay alive.

“Lie back and lift your feet.”

“Are you off your meds?” she gasped. “I won’t leave.”

“Why do I have to end up with the crazy ones?” she muttered, lowering herself onto her back. She winced and turned to her side. “My back hurts. Cope.”

I could have tied anyone in a dozen positions, but bragging about that particular skill would not be conducive at this point.

“Take my socks off. It’s too warm,” she mumbled.

I peeled one black sock down her heel, slowly, the wool catching on dried blood. Beneath it was another. I peeled that too. The soles were scraped and dark, but not as bad as I had feared. No glass. No deep cuts. I would see to all of them after she was fed. Her feet were cold in my hands. Small. I noticed how small. I stopped noticing.

I began to pile the circles of rope one atop the other, from her ankles to the beginning of her calves. The jute had warmed in my hands. Against the pale soles of her feet and the darker skin of her ankles, it did not look like a torture device. Not there to bind or restrain. It looked like adornment.

I placed the excess rope and the knife in the bag and set it on the dresser, out of reach.

Her glare made my lips twitch.

I scooped her up and set her in the middle of the bed. She smelled of sandalwood and cedar, my soap on her skin, and I stood a moment too long with the scent in my lungs.

“I will be back with food.”

She didn’t reply.

I locked the door this time.

The night air was warm against my face. I walked into it with the smell of her still on my hands and her pulse ticking against my thumb.

❦ ❦ ❦

She was American, or near enough, and all Americans loved ribs with baked potatoes. I had even asked the woman behind the counter to add some mac and cheese. The smell had followed me back along the walkway, hickory smoke and sweet sauce and hot butter, and the grease had already begun to bloom through the paper bag.

She looked young enough to enjoy milkshakes. Perhaps I should have bought her a milkshake.

It would be too heavy at this time of night.

Iskra didn’t have milkshakes. But she wasn’t American.

Maybe a soda.

It was too late now.

I unlocked the door to find her in the same position I had left her in, curled on her side in the middle of the bed, the charcoal scarf slipping at her temple. The rope still circled her wrists and ankles. She had not fought it. In the dim glow from the curtain, she looked small.

My phone had buzzed against my thigh the whole way back. Three missed calls from Zero. He did not call three times. I could ring him once she was fed, tended to and put to sleep.

She tried to stifle a yawn. When that didn’t work, she clapped her bound hands over her mouth. The jute scraped faintly against her chin.

I helped her sit up, one palm beneath her shoulder, careful to avoid her back. She smelled of sandalwood and cedar and warm skin. I regretted inhaling instantly.

“What happened to your back?”

“Cruelty of fate.”

I opened the bag and took out the two large containers. The Styrofoam was hot and damp with steam. The smell filled the room, thick and smoky, and her stomach answered it with a groan so loud I almost smiled. I watched her swallow. I watched her eyes follow the containers like a hunted thing watching a hand.

I set mine on the nightstand and considered how long it would take for the plastic cutlery to snap beneath the weight of my fingers.