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Great. Just what I always wanted: a luxury suite with complimentary bondage accessories.
My eyes darted around, taking in the opulence that surrounded me. Whoever had taken me had taste, I'd give them that. But then my gaze landed on something that made my blood run cold – satin pajamas that hugged my body, whispering against my skin. And there, embroidered over my heart, was my nickname: CeCe. A shiver ran down my spine as the reality sunk in. Some creep had undressed me, bathed me, and put me to bed like I was a goddamn doll.
The fact that someone had seen me, touched me while I was unconscious... It sent a tidal wave of revulsion crashing into me. All the walls I’d built, all the guards I’d placed around myself since my best friend's death, they crumbled in an instant, leaving me exposed. It wasn’t just the betrayal that stung, it was the meticulous care he had taken. There was a twisted intimacy in the way the fabric caressed me, one I hadn’t felt since...
"Fuck this," I hissed, pulling at the shackle, knowing full well it wouldn't budge. I was trapped in this gilded cage, courtesy of a phantom who fancied himself my savior or tormentor – maybe both.
"Whoever you are," I called out, hoping the bastard would hear me through whatever high-tech surveillance he had set up, "when I get out of here, I'm going to kick your ass so hard you'll taste the polish from my toenails."
There was no answer, just the echo of my own threats hanging in the air. I was alone, left to stew in a mix of fear, anger, and, yeah, a screwed-up kind of longing I refused to acknowledge.
The scent of coffee wafted to my nose, a cruel reminder that even in captivity, some bastard had the decency to brew a decent pot. My stomach growled, its complaints louder than the buzz of anger that had settled into my every thought. It had been—what? Days? Weeks?—since I'd last eaten something that didn't come out of a vending machine.
I shifted on the bed, the shackle clinking like a mocking applause. And that was when I noticed the tray of breakfast laid out with almost surgical precision: eggs cooked just shy of runny, bacon crisp but not burnt, and toast buttered to perfection. I scoffed, but the saliva pooling in my mouth betrayed my hunger. It was my favorite breakfast.
"Guess Hannibal Lecter's hosting brunch today," I muttered, begrudgingly acknowledging the pang of gratitude for the meal. But as I reached for the silverware, a shiver crawled up my spine. The same hands that had prepared this spread were the ones that undressed me. Stripped me bare without my consent. The thought should've repulsed me—and it did, but it also ignited a flicker of heat deep inside.
I tried to quash the twisted thrill of being seen so intimately by a stranger. Someone who'd taken liberties with my body while I was out cold. But, here I was, nibbling on the toast he provided, like some starving rat in a trap.
But I ate. God, did I eat. Every bite was a betrayal to my pride, but hunger was a bitch that didn't care about dignity. The flavors exploded on my tongue—sweet, savory, rich—and for a moment, a very brief, shameful moment, I forgot the steel cuff around my ankle. I forgot the loss that still throbbed in my chest, raw and relentless.
Who knew Stockholm Syndrome came with room service? I giggled to the emptiness, the laugh bubbling up, laced with hysteria. Maybe I was losing it, maybe I was already gone, but if I was going down, I'd be the one steering the ship straight into the iceberg.
"Bon appétit, you sick fuck," I whispered, raising an invisible glass to my captor, wherever he lurked. Because if I was going to unravel, I'd do it with a full stomach and a fire in my belly that no amount of gourmet food could ever extinguish.
Chewing on a piece of toast, I couldn't help but feel like an animal in one of those nature documentaries. There was no David Attenborough to narrate my plight, but the camera panning slowly in the corner did enough talking. Its unblinking eye followed me with an unsettling precision that made my skin crawl. I swallowed the toast, feeling it scratch down my throat—a dry reminder that I was being watched.
"Enjoying the show?" I snapped, glaring at the camera as if it could transmit my glare to my captor. "You pervert." My voice echoed against the luxurious walls, mocking me with its hollowness.
A crackle from a hidden speaker broke the silence, and his voice slid into the room, smooth as silk and twice as suffocating. "I take pride in my hospitality," he said, the amusement clear in his tone. It made me want to hurl the porcelain plate at the wall, just to hear something break.
"Did you pick out these pajamas too?" I asked, fingering the satin fabric with my name embroidered over the breast pocket. "Or maybe you enjoyed playing dress-up with my unconscious body?"
"Someone has to take care of you," he replied, and I could almost hear the smirk in his voice.
"Right, 'cause when I think of 'taking care' I think of shackles and surveillance," I grumbled. The anger bubbled up inside me, a fiery cocktail of fear and frustration. I tossed the napkin onto the tray, my appetite vanishing under his invisible gaze. "You're twisted, you know that?"
"Perhaps," he mused. "But let's not pretend you don't find the danger... enticing."
"Fuck off." My words were a hiss, a serpent's warning. I hated that he wasn't entirely wrong. This city had chewed me up and spat me out; I was no stranger to dancing with devils. But this—this was a waltz with the king of hell himself.
"Language, Celeste," he tsked through the speaker. "Such bitterness doesn't suit you."
"Neither does kidnapping, but here we are," I shot back, fingers curling into fists. Chicago had taken everything from me: my art, my heart, my best fucking friend. What was one more betrayal? I'd already lost it all. "So what's next? Torture? Brainwashing? Or do you get your kicks from just watching girls eat?"
"Patience," he soothed, a word that dripped like honey, sweet and poisonous. "All will be revealed in time."
"Can't wait," I muttered, rolling my eyes. I leaned back against the headboard, the metal cuff cold against my skin. If this was a game, I'd play—for now. But I played for keeps, and he'd do well to remember that.
"Until then, enjoy your breakfast," he said, the connection cutting off with a click that left me alone once again with the silence.
"Asshole," I whispered to the camera, knowing he was probably still watching. The thrill of defiance was a small victory, but it was mine. And in this gilded cage, I'd take every win I could get.
Istared at the ceiling, a canvas of pristine white as bland as my captor's sense of morality. The satin pajamas clung to my skin like a lover's caress I didn't remember inviting. My name, embroidered near my heart—a mockery of intimacy from a man whose face was still a mystery.
I mocked myself under my breath, hating the way my body hummed with a misplaced attraction. His touch was invisible but everywhere; the phantom fingers that had bathed me lingered, sparking a fire in places I'd sworn were ash after Chicago burned me alive.
"Damn you," I whispered, not sure if I was cursing him or my own traitorous skin that craved contact, even from a ghost. But it was more than physical, wasn't it? The bastard played a twisted knight, rescuing his trapped princess—with chains and surveillance, no less. Romantic, if you squinted hard enough and ignored every screaming instinct.
