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A quick bout of raw, rough sex will help me think more clearly for the hunt, and I have every intention to be back in time to set my plan in motion. And by plan, I mean sticking my knife in my boot and making a run for it in the woods, where hopefully Luca will be too put off by mud and frost to follow me. He’s already had the dogs taken away—Nadine herself came to get them (afterunceremoniously rejecting the red rose I offered her by way of greeting—she’s playing hard to get).
It’s bleak and snowy outside, but I dress for my date, not for the weather. A short red dress (the colour of Valentine, of course), fishnets (no panties, because I’m above all things an efficient woman), and my trusted combat boots (for the snow).
Being away from Luca and the noxious atmosphere created by his sexual frustration and inability to find joy in literally anything is a highlight of this date. These days, I’m either at work or here, so the thought of being in a nice hotel room, having some light-hearted, low-commitment fun is really boosting my morale.
I’m in a good mood the entire time I’m getting ready, singing along to my music, which is on full volume. I’m bent over in front of the full-length mirror, applying my eyeliner, when my door slams open.
I turn with a start, dragging a sloppy black line across my temple and into my hairline. Luca stands in the doorway, looking like death itself come to drag me to the depths of the netherworld.
He’s all in black, every part of him covered except his face, where a smile blooms hideously. His eyes are the blanched grey of ashes, his hair is slicked back like a smooth helmet of pale metal.
“What do you want?” I ask, turning back to the mirror and trying to rub out the eyeliner. “I’m busy, get out.”
“You’re never too busy for me, Lynch,” Luca says, strolling into the room with the lazy gait of a predator closing in on trapped prey.
I place the cap back on my eyeliner and turn slowly away from the mirror, narrowing my eyes. Luca sounds like he’s in a good mood… why?
And then I see Luca’s right hand. It’s closed into a fist, something small wrapped in his grasp. Well,shit.
I don’t even think. I grab the first thing my hand catches—my black crown ashtray. I fling it at Luca and dash to the door.
Luca dodges the ashtray effortlessly, smooth and reflexive as a machine. He reaches out just as I dive past him. He catches me around my middle, his arm knocking the wind out of me. With surprising strength, he draws me back to him, pressing me into his body.
And then there’s the telltale stabbing pain of a needle being thrust into my neck.
“You fuuucking bastard,” I gasp, slumping in his grasp.
Luca swoops me into his arms and throws me over his shoulder. His gloved hands tighten around my thighs, a firm, impersonal touch. My vision goes blurry—I pass out before he even reaches the door.
Consciousness is a foggywasteland through which I seem to be travelling for hours before finally emerging.
Even blinking is difficult, my eyelids like lead, my mouth dry and papery. My head lolls down on my chest, and a wave of dizziness rushes in when I lift it, as if I’ve been caught in a tornado.
The room around me is cavernous and dark and luxurious, dim lights set in panels of dark wood, an enormous bed, dark grey rugs on a smooth floor. Everything is elegant and impeccably tidy. Even if I hadn’t broken into this room before, I would recognise it as Luca’s bedroom.
The grogginess fades away, and the pain comes blaring through, familiar and unwanted. My neck throbs where I’ve been stabbed with the needle, and there’s an ache in my muscles like the fever I had a few weeks ago. My shoulders are sore, and that’s because my arms are trapped behind my back. I glance back to find the silver bracelets of a pair of handcuffs circling my wrists, the chain looped through the dark frame of the chair I’m sitting in.
The bedroom door opens, and Luca, in funereal black, comes in, checking the watch on his wrist. He catches my eyes and smiles. “Right on cue.”
He’s holding a small water bottle, a straw sticking out of it. He kneels in front of me. His gloved hand rests on my thigh with the intimate familiarity of a lover. He places the straw between my lips. I suck in a mouthful of water and spit it into his face.
His smile doesn’t so much as falter. He leans forward to wipe his face on my skirt and tilts his head slightly.
“Spit-play, Willow?” His tone is mild and amused. “But we barely know one another.”
He circles me and stands behind my chair. I turn to watch him take a swig from the water bottle before placing it calmly aside. He takes my head in one arm, tilting it back and holding it secure in a slight chokehold. Then he pries my mouth open with his fingers. I know what’s going to happen, and I thrash in my chair as Luca stands over me and lets the water in his mouth dribble into mine.
When he’s done, he closes my mouth with his hand and holds it firmly closed.
“Be a good girl andswallow.”
With no other choice, I obey.
“Well done.” He smiles—the sight of his upside-down smirk is a nightmarish vision—and releases my head.
“You make my fucking skin crawl,” I tell him.
“And yet, I bet your cunt is still wet.” He picks up the bottle and holds it out next to my face. “Are you going to drink or would you prefer I force you?”
