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I’m free!
I swing myself out of bed and brace against the heavy wooden post. Gritting my teeth, I pull my hand against the steel circle of the handcuff. With the right amount of joint-screaming pressure, I pop my thumb out of its socket and wrench it through. Fire blazes up my poor thumb, and I have to swallow my scream, but with my thumb out, my fingers follow easily. Shuddering, sweating, and panting with the pain, I clutch my throbbing hand to my chest and head for the door.
It’s unlocked. I stop breathing and turn the knob slowly so as not to make any sound. The space beyond the bedroom is a smaller version of Victor’s penthouse. There’s a kitchen with a giant quartz-topped island with four black leather-topped bar stools pushed under it. The rest of the area is bare, with a thick plush rug and a single, deep black leather armchair. Doors line the walls, thick and utilitarian. Probably locked. One of them might lead back to the large room where Victor’s been holding me. Even if escape lay that way, I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to enter the dungeon-like space again.
The first door I open leads to a small bathroom. My bladder screams at me, but I ignore it. Next door, locked. The next, by the kitchen, opens to a dark hallway. I’m through it in a flash, racing down. It’s dark, and I pat the walls with my good hand, finding door after door, each one locked.
He comes out of the shadows, his silver-gold hair lighting up the dark. “Lula.”
I scream, and he grabs me, tugging me back the way I came. Maybe back to the dungeon?—
I kick, and he grunts, then lifts me. I’m a wild thing, thrashing and flailing. I’ll do anything to escape him. I can’t go back to the dungeon; I just can’t?—
He drags me down to the rug, his weight falling on me. A few feet away, the open door to the hallway swings shut. I feel the final click, like a guillotine blade slicing down, severing all hope.
“No,” I growl.
“Lula,” he murmurs in my ear. “You can’t have thought it’d be this easy.”
I jerk away, but he holds me fast. When I try to free my arms, the move hits my dislocated thumb, and my body seizes with the pain.
I cry out, and he rolls me to my back, pressing me into the floor with his hips heavy on mine.
“Oh, krasiva, what have you done to yourself?” He pins me and reaches for my hand.
I try to wrestle him one-handed, breathlessly pleading, but he immobilizes me.
“Shhhh, precious one. I’m not going to hurt you.” He shifts his weight so he’s not crushing me.
Whimpering, I let him take my hand and study it.
“Correction. This will hurt for a moment.” He searches my eyes until I nod and pops my thumb back into place. My whole body seizes, screaming, and then I slump, panting.
He bundles me in his lap, and I settle there, draped against his chest, while the sweat dries on my back, and my body gets used to the empty feeling where the pain used to be. The fight’s gone out of me. . . for now.
After a few minutes, my breathing matches his.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I tell him quietly. He rises effortlessly, still holding me, and carries me to the bathroom. For a moment, I’m afraid he’ll stay with me in the small space, but he sets me down, waits until I’m no longer wobbling on my feet, and, with a brisk kiss on my forehead, leaves me. I sink down onto the toilet, feeling pathetically grateful.
I spend long moments in the bathroom, finger-combing my hair and scrubbing my face with one hand, scolding myself the whole time. He’s the enemy. He’s the worst.
But when I warily exit the bathroom, I can’t help searching for him. And when I see him, barefoot and broad-shouldered, standing in the kitchen area, my heart flutters.
“Hello, beautiful.” His eyes crinkle as he smiles. Behind the island, tending to something on the stove, he’s the picture of domestic bliss. A boyfriend welcoming me home.
I’ve never had a boyfriend. If I had, he wouldn’t be model-pretty like Victor. A sense of satisfaction hums through me, pleasure that this beautiful creature is, for the moment, mine.
Which is stupid. I’m his prisoner. I have to remember that, and resist.
The scent of sautéed onions hits me, and my stomach cramps.
Victor signals me forward. I halt at his stupid hand gesture, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he’s too busy plating something mouthwatering and sliding it across the island to a place setting. “You must be hungry.”
An omelet. He’s made me an omelet sprinkled with finely cut chives. And it looks like something out of a cooking magazine, damn him.
I cross the space to him, feeling the pull toward him deep in my belly.
In this mundane setting, I feel my nakedness even more. Again, I’m naked while he’s clothed, and the powerful contrast makes my core throb. When I slide onto the stool, the cool leather makes goosebumps break out over my body.
