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"Hey, Romeo!" I called out, my voice laced with venom, "Why the hell am I chained to the bed? Afraid I'll wander off?"
"Because your safety is paramount," he replied, his voice a velvet caress that made me want to punch something—preferably him. "There's something out there, Celeste. A darkness that seeks you, and I won't let it have you."
"Right, whatever you say, Prince Charming. Just know this, I don't do damsel in distress well. And when I get out of these chains, we're going to have a very different conversation."
But as I lay there, the shackles on my ankle a constant reminder of my captivity, I couldn't help feeling the pull of his dark gravity. It was madness, feeling this draw to a man who'd stolen me away, treating me like property to be kept and cared for. But, here I was, caught between wanting to escape and the perverse desire to see the face of my captor—to look into the eyes of the devil who'd made my pulse race with fear and something far more dangerous.
Let's not pretend you're buying into this bullshit about dark forces after you, Celeste. You're smarter than that. I thought even as a shiver danced down my spine. The nightmares had been vivid lately—more than just the usual abstract fears and anxieties. They were a nightly cascade of shadows and whispers, chasing me through endless corridors of my mind.
"Perhaps you think I'm spinning tales," his disembodied voice responded, a hint of amusement lacing his words. "But consider your dreams, Celeste. Have they not grown more... insistent?"
"Fuck you for playing mind games," I shot back, but the icy fingers of doubt were already caressing my thoughts. Those damn nightmares felt too real, too close to something buried deep within me. Maybe there was a connection, though it clawed at my reason to even entertain such an idea.
"Language, my dear," he chided with a chuckle that did nothing to warm the chill settling in my bones. "You must remember that civility begets privileges here."
"Privileges? Like what? Getting paraded around on a leash so I can take a piss without an audience?" I sneered, but my heart raced at the notion of freedom, however small.
"Ah, you jest, but you're not entirely wrong," he replied, the sound of his voice indicating he was enjoying this far more than I. "Behave, and you'll find your restraints loosened. For now, supervised bathroom breaks are where we begin."
"Behave." The word tasted like ash in my mouth. Behave, and play the part of the good little captive.
"Start behaving like a sane person, and maybe I'll consider it," I said, the bitterness in my tone cutting through the silence that followed. Silence that spoke volumes of the game we were both engaged in—a game I intended to win, even if it meant dancing with the devil a little longer.
"Very well, Celeste. We’ll see how long your rebellion lasts," he replied, the smugness evident even through the cold speaker.
"Count on it being a fucking eternity," I whispered to myself, as I lay back against the pillows that felt like clouds compared to the hard reality awaiting me outside these walls. And yet, despite the fear, the anger, and the looming threat of whatever hell he believed was after me, I couldn't shake the dark thrill that pulsed through my veins at the thought of our next encounter.
Irolled my eyes so hard I was afraid they might get stuck that way when I spotted the nightstand's contents. There, nestled among the dark wood and gleaming surface, were all my favorite books—the ones I'd dog-eared and coffee-stained through endless nights of devouring their pages. A perverse library curated just for me.
"Great," I muttered under my breath, sarcasm dripping from each word like poison. "The fucking 'Beauty and the Beast' treatment. What's next? Singing candlesticks?"
A flicker of movement caught my attention—a screen coming to life with a soft chime. My captor had rigged up some kind of smart TV system, and there was a Netflix list, scrolling endlessly with every film I'd ever gushed about. The bastard must have done his homework.
"Hope you got your kicks, learning all my darkest secrets and shit," I said to the camera that I knew was watching, my voice heavy with bitter mockery. "Guess this means I'm supposed to be flattered, huh?"
"Only trying to make your stay more comfortable, Celeste. You're a guest here—anything you want, just ask. As long as you follow the rules." His voice crackled to life from the speaker, sending a shiver down my spine despite myself.
"Guest?" I scoffed, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. "Last time I checked, guests don't usually wear chains. But hey, what do I know? Maybe that's just Chicago hospitality for ya."
But even as I spat out the words, there was something else brewing inside me—a sick sense of satisfaction. It twisted through me like smoke, curling around the raw edges of fear and anger. I hated it. Hated him. And yet, damn it, it was there: a throbbing, undeniable attraction to the very man who had taken my freedom.
I was torn between wanting to smash the screen and binge-watch every movie until my eyes bled. Torn between the urge to scream myself hoarse and the primal need that whispered temptingly of release. Torn between the cold grip of terror at the thought of being at his mercy, and the heat that pooled low in my belly when I imagined his hands on me—hands that had bathed me, dressed me, shackled me.
But the memories of lost touch haunted me. My best friend, the one person I trusted, gone—leaving a gaping hole where my heart used to be. Now, here I was, bound to a bed in a stranger's lair, feeling the ghost of his fingers trailing along my skin. It was fucked up. All of it. And still, the darkness within me craved more.
Chapter 22
Nash
The flickering images on the screen cast a pale, ghostly light across my office—a stark contrast to the dark thoughts that churned in my mind. The newscaster's voice was a muted drone as they rattled off the latest tragedy to strike Chicago: an explosion that had reduced Celeste Holloway's home to smoldering rubble. "Presumed dead," they said, a picture of her—a candid shot with her hair wild and eyes bright—flashing momentarily before the camera panned to the devastation.
Presumed. They had no idea how close death had actually danced with Celeste. If not for my intervention, the grim reaper would have claimed her, snatching away the one thing that had become the focal point of my existence. Even now, as I sat in the quiet fortress of my office, the weight of that near-miss pressed down on me, heavy as the night sky.
I turned from the monitor displaying the news, my gaze drawn irresistibly to another screen—one that revealed a scene far more intimate than any reporter could hope to capture. It was Celeste, my Little Shadow, shackled and vulnerable in the room I'd meticulously prepared. The sight of her, even unconscious and confined, stirred a lust within me. Each rise and fall of her chest was a silent accusation, each soft exhale a reminder of the line I had crossed.
The chains that bound her were a necessary evil. Freedom, at this point, was a luxury neither of us could afford. But there was something achingly beautiful in her helplessness, something that called to the deepest, most possessive parts of me.
The world believed her gone, swallowed by flames and fury, but I knew better. I had plucked her from the jaws of fate, swept her away to a place where only I could reach her.
