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My heart sinks. Andrew.
“You LIED to me,” he hisses in my ear as he rips off the blindfold.
I look frantically around. We’re in an abandoned meat-packing plant. The ropes tied around my wrists are looped up over a hook that once held dead animal carcasses.
“You were never going to be homeless. You tricked me into caring again and coming to your rescue, and you were gone. Why didn't you answer my calls and messages? WHY? Too busy laughing with a new lover? You obviously found someone very well off with that car you're driving,” he sneers.
He looks crazed. I have no idea what to say to him. He won't believe me if I tell him I was kidnapped. What kind of kidnapper lets their victim go and furnishes them with a Porsche? I'm still trying to process the fact that I'm not tied up for punishment from my masters but for some kind of revenge from my ex-boyfriend.
It sickens me to think I voluntarily dated this piece of shit for as long as I did. He was a mean asshole and bad in bed, but I didn't think he was a violent criminal. I hold onto the small thread of hope that he's bluffing or can't bring himself to do whatever it is he's psyching himself up to do.
“Andrew, this is crazy. It's not what you think. You need to untie me.” It takes everything in me not to say the word Master again. Not because I would ever think of Andrew in that way but because I've been so conditioned these past few months to respond with that word when afraid, when tied up, when at someone else's mercy.
And then I see the knife, and the real panic begins.
“Andrew... please.”
“Andrew, please,” he mimics in a high voice. “This is the only way you'll learn not to be such a lying fucking bitch.” He slices my sundress in several places and rips it off me. Then he does the same with my panties. I'm not wearing a bra for him to destroy.
He goes for my collar, fumbling for a clasp or way to get it off. “Why won't this come off? Why is it locked on?”
The collar. It's become so much a part of me that I forget it's there half the time. I silently pray Seven and Declan are on their way. But how long will they wait before thinking I've tried to run and come for me? And how do I even know there's really a tracking device inside? How would a tracking device be inside?
The tears slide down my cheeks as I realize it was probably just another mindfuck—just something to scare me, to train me and make me obey. What if there isn't a tracking device? And even if there is, what if they haven't gotten concerned enough about my absence to bother coming after me? I could be dead long before they even leave the house.
Andrew takes a step back and stares at the collar, then back at me, then at the collar again, then back at me as he finally puts two and two together.
“Oh. My. God. You fucking whore. This is delicious. I'd fuck you before I killed you, but we both know you'll be dry, you frigid fucking bitch. How on earth did you get some man to play kinky sex games with you when you can't even come? Does he just keep you around for blow jobs? I recall you're actually talented there. Maybe I'll let you blow me before I cut you up.”
I'm crying seriously now—not just a few delicate tears sliding down my cheeks but full-on sobbing. I no longer have just basic fear of punishment for getting home late, but terror as the reality of who has me and why he's taken me has finally clicked inside my drug-addled brain.
“Andrew, please... please, I'm sorry, please... don't hurt me.”
I want to spit in his face. I want to swing back and kick out at him. But I want to live more. I want to see Seven and Declan again. I want to be back home with them. I rack my brain, trying to figure out how to calm him down and somehow get out of this.
I flinch and try to pull away as he presses the tip of the knife at my throat and slowly drags it downward, not drawing blood, not yet. He wants me as afraid as I can possibly be. Maybe he's bluffing. Maybe he just wants to scare me. I hold onto this thought because I still just can't believe he's a killer. I can't believe he would cut me.
“Y-you don't want to do this. I'm not worth prison.”
He laughs again. “Trust me, baby, I won't get caught.” He makes a small, shallow cut across my collar bone, his eyes lighting with delighted malice at the sight of my blood.
I yelp at the thin burning streak. Then my gaze shifts as I catch movement in the shadows. It's them.
I catch Seven's eye. “Master, please...”
“I'm not yourMaster,” Andrew says. “You're not worth that much investment, you little freak.”
A throat clears, and Andrew nearly jumps out of his skin as he realizes we aren't alone.
“I believe she was referring to me,” Seven says, stepping out of the shadows.
Andrew turns wildly, this time holding the knife up like he thinks he's going to fight him with it.
Declan joins Seven, and the two of them throw the full force of their dark, blank stares on Andrew. They are terrifying when they drop the masks and let that cold, menacing darkness swirl out of them.
“Andrew, Andrew, Andrew,” Seven says. “This is awkward. We were grateful that you practically gift-wrapped a girl with nothing to lose and nowhere to go for us to just pick right up. But she doesn't belong to you, pal. She belongs to us, and I'm afraid touching our toys is a killing offense.”
“Indeed,” Declan says.
