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Something tells me she’s slippery, waiting for me to drop my guard. Not a chance, little thief.
Blair remains silent as we enter the kitchen. The tenacity of her fight when I first caught her in the car has bled away, but I doubt it’s simply gone. She must be trying to play up that she’s weak against my strength.
I don’t want to bring her to my room. The kitchen’s my best bet for something to restrain her.
Drawer after drawer, I come up empty. All I’ve done is make a load of noise as I search. Blair tests my hold, attempting to wrench away. I dig my fingers into her pale skin with a growl. Frustration sears in my chest as I search for cooking string or some shit.
Christ, how do I not know where this crap is in my own house?
“You seem unprepared for taking someone captive,” Blair deadpans.
I round on her, letting my angry gaze glide over her petite frame. “If you’d rather, I’ve got a pair of handcuffs in my bedroom. I’d chain you up to my bed, but I don’t want you to get it dirty.” I pause to feign thoughtfulness. “Then again, I guess I could give you a flea dip first.”
Blair’s lip curls and I return to my search.
Her stare speaks volumes, pricking the back of my neck as I tug her in my wake. When I shoot a glance at her, she’s taking in everything around her with a calculating interest that irks me.
Her pulse doesn’t lie though. It jumps beneath my fingers when I jerk her forward another step by her wrist.
“Take it in, Davis,” I spit, sweeping my arm. “It’s the most money you’ll ever be near.”
Her brow ticks up and her pouty lips twitch, the only responses to my words. She’s so practiced at containing her reactions when I attack her in school. It irritates me that she won’t fight me here, either.
Fucking say something. Do something.
It becomes difficult to rummage through the drawers with one hand while I drag her in circles around the room.
Biting back an annoyed grunt, I spot the pouch attached to her belt. Maybe she’s got something I can use. The poetic justice of using her own shit on her is too good.
In one fluid movement, I spin her around and hook one of the metal-backed stools by the island with my foot. The jarring scrape against the tiles makes both of us tense.
Stepping into Blair’s personal space, my hands lock on her waist. This close I can spot the tiny freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks.
Her breath hitches at my proximity, her eyes widening a fraction. “Get away from me!”
I smirk as I hoist her up with ease, dropping her none too gently on the stool. She shoots her hands to the seat to steady her balance. I bring a hand to her throat, grinning when her lips move together in a displeased twist.
“Don’t think about going anywhere,” I croon in a mocking, flirtatious tone. “You’re not escaping.”
I expect her to fight me. She has a fire inside to unleash against me, one I crave—if only for the chance to squash her by force. But she stills, her hands clenched on her knees. Interesting.
She could be biding her time. She’ll wait all night for an opportunity that isn’t coming. I’m not letting her get away with any trick.
Blair’s intelligent eyes sweep the room, lingering on the doors.
I wind her soft ponytail around my hand, then dig my fingers into the elastic and undo it so her dark hair spills like a curtain around her face. It was hard to see in the struggle, but it’s no longer the color of an angry storm cloud I’ve grown used to searching for in the halls at school. It was dyed the unnatural color when I flailed cash on a fishing wire hours ago. Now it’s as black as mine.
Blair remains silent, even as I slide my hand from her hair, down her baggy shirt to her hip. It doesn’t get a rise out of her. When I snatch her pouch with a quick move, she finally loses that bored expression. The corners of her eyes tense.
A brittle chuckle drops from my lips and I give her neck a slight squeeze. “What do you have in your bag of tricks?”
Blair cuts her eyes to the side, her thick lashes sweeping over those freckles that wink at me like the stars. Her lower lip sucks between her teeth slightly instead of answering.
I set the zipper pouch on the counter and dig through it with one hand. My brows shoot up at the lock picks, pliers, a screwdriver, and a ring of keys that look similar to the set Bishop and I have for the school for our own mischief. My little thief isn’t playing around.
The corners of my mouth curl in satisfaction when I pass over a thin cord. Perfect.
Snatching her wrists, I force them low behind the chair, tying each tightly to the metal backing.
