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“Oh good,” says a voice, “you’re awake.”
I loll my head as I test my arms, but the clank of chains and the ache and pull of my muscles tells me I’m chained up, like I woke in a medieval nightmare.
“Who…?” The thickness to my voice is real, the grogginess isn’t.
“Who am I?” he says. “I’m not important here. Don’t worry, sit quietly. The drugs have mostly worn off. I’m going to have to drug you again, so this time, be good. I won’t be as gentle.”
“What…?”
“Look up and open your eyes.”
Fuck that. “I…I…water…”
One thing about me, apart from my near obsessive love of jewels, is it takes a lot to knock me out, just like it takes a lot to get me drunk. It takes me even less time to bounce back. Already the veils of the drugs are disappearing.
But if he’s going to drug me again, then I’m holding on to the coming clarity as long as I can.
“Open your fucking eyes and maybe I’ll get you water,” he says. “After we talk.”
I crack open my eyes and try to get my bearings. I’m a world-renowned jewel thief, not escape artist. Although I’ve gotten out of some fucked up trickery with ropes and cuffs before.
Not all of them kink based.
I didn’t recognize the man when he kidnapped me, and I don’t recognize him now. Apart from the fact the voice is the same.
I’m in something that a panic-ridden person might conclude is a dungeon, but it’s some kind of holding cell. No windows. One staircase. A basement. I don’t know if they moved me from one room in this building to here, or from another place entirely. I’m not sure how much it matters.
I try and test the constraints as subtly as I can. There’s a little give with the chains but not much. When I move a foot, my movement’s impeded. Bastard has those shackled, too. And, as I shift, my breath’s cut short as something bites into my larynx.
Shit. A fucking collar?
“You can stop pretending,” the man says. “I’ve been watching you this whole time.”
My gaze snaps to him.
“Then get me some water, and take this fucking collar off,” I say. “I’m not a dog.”
“No water yet. Not until we talk.”
“The collar?” I ask. “It’s not like I can go anywhere.”
The man smiles. “An added precaution, since I don’t know the extent of your skillset, Miss Rossi. Move too much, try to escape, and that’s going to strangle you.”
More things come back, invade my head. I got in a kick somewhere. There’s a sense memory of the sweet song of satisfaction of connecting to something soft. And a howl. Did I manage to kick one of the thugs in the balls?
God, I hope so. I eye him. “How’s your friend’s balls?”
“Still attached.”
Somehow, I swallow the smile. “Takes a small army to keep a good woman down.”
“Or some chains and a collar to restrain a bad one,” he says, crossing his arms.
Another memory jumps out, a burst of clarity from the fog and nightmare imagery in my head. My mouth goes dry. He wanted the infamous and gorgeous necklace, the Heart of Dark Desires.
That’s why we went to Harry’s store.
I give a tug on my chained wrists.
