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His voice stays infuriatingly calm. “I knew there was a chance you’d try something. And that’s alright. It just means you aren’t ready for that kind of freedom yet.”
He bends, and suddenly my feet leave the floor. A shriek rips from my chest as one of his arms hooks beneath my knees while the other supports my back, and then I’m against his chest again, exactly like last night in the alley.
“No!” My voice cracks. Panic claws at my throat, and I beat at his broad chest. “Put me down!”
He murmurs, “I am.”
“Now!”
“I’m taking you to the bed.”
I kick at the air. “I don’t want to go to the bed!”
“I know.” He carries me there anyway.
He lowers me onto the mattress. The second I’m down, I try to scramble away, but he catches my ankle instantly.
“Please don’t! Please let me go!” I plead, kicking like a wild animal. The comforter rustles beneath me.
He gets over me—not on top of me exactly, but close enough that his weight and size make escape impossible. One hand pins my forearm carefully against the mattress while the other reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of… pink handcuffs?
The sight of them makes my brain glitch for just long enough that by the time I remember I need to fight, the padded cuff is already locked around my right wrist.
It’s soft. The inside is thick and smooth, so there’s nothing sharp or hard digging into my skin.
He fastens it snugly enough that I can’t pull free, then secures the short strap to the headboard.
“There.”
I tug hard, but the cuff holds. It also doesn’t bite, doesn’t hurt. Even when I tug with all my strength, it holds me without any pain.
My left wrist throbs from earlier, while my right is trapped inside something I don’t want to admit is comfortable.
I hate the contradiction so much that I start crying again.
The man sits back, looking at me. His breathing is a little heavier now. Mine sounds like I’ve run several miles.
I don’t understand why he doesn’t seem angry. I tried to hit him with a lamp to escape, then fought against his hold, even screamed at him, and he looks the same as he did when he first came into the room.
What if I…
“Fuck you,” I mumble, not quite able to get it out like the angry curse it should be.
A dark eyebrow rises; he didn’t expect that.
Good. I hope it offended him.
“I didn’t know you were capable of cursing, sweetheart,” he says, making me flush. “Be careful with that. It can be cute sometimes, but I’d hate to have to wash your little mouth out with soap.”
Something bizarre stirs inside me, and it’s not the raw fear that twists my gut into knots. Well, there’s still plenty of that, obviously, because I am handcuffed to a stranger’s bed in a house where, allegedly, nobody can hear me scream. But beneath that, something else squirms low in my belly, warm and tingly.
“W-what?” I stammer, my voice cracking and my cheeks burning.
“You heard me.”
“Yes, but…” My words trail off. But what? Why would he say that? And why did his tone make me want to curl up and hide my face in my stuffed rabbit, even though he’d threatened to put soap in my mouth like a stubborn child.
No. That flutter must be the leftover drugs messing with my head. Sedation, trauma, and dehydration are all much better explanations.
