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The sound of a clock in the hallway ticking was the only thing that broke up the silence. The light coming through the crack at the bottom of the door the only illumination in the room.
Pushing the blanket off, she sat up, the chain a heavy reminder of where she was and why she was here. But the strange part, the really, truly fucked-up part, was the fact that chain held this comfort for her. It was like a hand holding her, keeping her grounded.
Her entire life she’d been locked away, in a sense, and although she’d had her space, her “Cardona style freedom”, she’d always felt like she was alone. But right here, right now, trapped in this room, her kidnapper just beyond the door, she felt like she was free in a way she could never truly comprehend.
It was strange, warped and twisted, but it also felt like she wasn’t out of control and unable to see the ground.
She stood and walked over to the door, staring at the handle in the darkened, muted room. She’d already walked the entire perimeter of her “prison” and although there was a lamp she could have used as a weapon, there was another part of her that had forced her to walk away from it.
Even if she wanted to beat Fury over the head with it, the truth was it wouldn’t have done anything more than piss him off. But Angelina hadn’t even really thought of hitting him with it, because after she’d spilled her past, some of it at least, she’d felt this weight being lifted from her.
She wanted to leave, sure, but she also knew being tucked away in the middle of nowhere would also ensure her father wouldn’t find her.
Am I so screwed up I’d rather stay chained to a wall in the home of a man that kidnapped me than face the world where my father could find me?
She gripped the handle, the brass cold in her grasp, but warming the longer she held it. She turned it and pulled the door open, the light from the living room hurting her eyes for a second before her vision adjusted.
She bent down and picked up the extra length of the chain so it didn’t drag on the ground as badly, and slowly made her way down the hall. The slack went taut when she reached the end, the living room, kitchen, and front door in sight.
Looking around, she didn’t see Fury, but as she leaned forward as far as she could, she made out a closed door off to the right. Was that his room, where he was right now?
Staring at the front door again, Angelina honestly didn’t know if she would have run for it if she hadn’t been chained up.
“You reallyaremore screwed up than you thought,” she whispered to herself. Before turning, she spied an empty scotch bottle sitting on the coffee table, and thought a stiff drink would have done her some good right about now.
Turning, she headed back down the hallway but went into the bathroom instead. Turning on the light and looking at herself in the mirror, she hated herself for everything she’d put up with in her life. She’d never fought, and always settled, and look at where she was now.
She shut the door, or as well as she could given the chain blocking it from shutting completely.
“I should have run farther, and not been so fucking naive and dumb,” she said to her reflection. Glancing at the bathtub, she contemplated for just a second about taking a bath.
She hoped to ease her nerves and help her sleep, but she wasn’t at home, wasn’t in any sane and normal circumstance.
“God.” She breathed out, braced her hands on the sink, and closed her eyes. If she’d had any information about her father, she would have given it up gladly.
And then, like a flash of lightning going off inside of her, she remembered something. It might not be anything, but it was better than nothing.
The house he always stayed at when things got too heavy.
She pulled the door open, and a startled cry left her when she saw Fury standing there in nothing but a pair of jeans that were unbuttoned. He had a hand braced on the doorframe, his muscles so pronounced she actually felt a tingle move up her spine.
He had tattoos covering every inch of his chest and arms, and even though he was covered in ink, she could see scars intermittently along his body.
Angelina took a step back, the chain dragging across the floor, and her side hitting the corner of the sink vanity. She winced as the pain lanced through her. The scent of alcohol came from him like a slap to the face, and she wondered if she could get intoxicated just from the smell alone.
He was drunk, that was clear by his bloodshot eyes, the alcohol scent coming from him, and the fact he just looked good and wasted. She didn’t know why that turned her on the way it did, but she felt heat move through her.
Bracing her hand on the sink, she didn’t know what to say or do. He didn’t move, just stood there with his arm propped up on the doorframe, and his bicep flexed, showcasing his muscles.
Maybe Angelina shouldn’t have been looking at him, but she couldn’t help letting her gaze travel down his abdomen, over his six-pack, and to the V of muscle that screamed he was all male.
He also had a dark trail of hair that started below his navel and disappeared beneath his jeans.
God, how fucked up am I that I find him so arousing?
“I—” Yeah, she had no clue what to say, because as it was, Fury just stood there staring at her with half lidded eyes.
“You what?” he asked, his voice scratchy, deep, and masculine.
