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I whimper as he reaches forward and cups my chin with his gloved hand, then turns me to him. He stares into my eyes like he’s looking for something, though I have no idea what.
“Any blurred vision, headache, or numbness?” he asks.
I swallow nervously and go to shake my head, then remember he’s holding it. “Um… Maybe a headache? Just… just a little one…”
He lets go of my chin and sits back on his heels. “You haven’t had anything to drink since last night. You’re probably dehydrated. I’ll get you some water in a minute.”
He looks me over, like he’s memorizing my face, then reaches carefully into his sweatpants pocket and pulls out a small black-handled knife.
I freeze, my heart stopping. I expect pain. Blood.
But he just clicks out the blade with his thumb and slices open the zip tie like it’s nothing. My arm falls free, and I scramble away from him, nearly crushing my rabbit into the wall the bed is pushed up against. The plastic leaves a raw, angry welt around my wrist. I tuck it against my stomach, not sure whether to hide it or protect it.
“Hey, hey,” he says. He doesn’t sound angry. More gentle, really, which makes everything worse. “I need to see.” He holds out his hand, palm up. I stare at it and don’t move. He waits, and eventually says, “I’m not gonna hurt you. Let me check your wrist to make sure you don’t have nerve damage. Please.”
My throat hurts from holding in tears. I slowly stick out my arm, and he takes it gently, cradling it between his hands. He presses around my wrist, then runs his thumb over the swelling.
A low, quiet hum comes from his chest, like he’s thinking deeply about something. “Some swelling, but it should be fine. I’ll put some ointment on it after you eat.”
Eat. The word feels foreign, like it belongs to a different life. He lets go of my arm and stands, pocketing the knife.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going out to the kitchen. I’ll bring you breakfast, water, and Tylenol. You’re going to be good and stay right here in the bed. You understand?”
I nod, but my body is already coiled to run if I see a window or door left open. He must see the intention on my face, because he gives me a stern look.
“You’ll just hurt yourself if you try anything. The door will be locked behind me. Don’t do anything stupid. If you’re good, you’ll show me that you don’t need to be tied up.” His voice is cold, but his eyes aren’t. He’s almost… worried… about me. My brain can’t decide if I should hate him or trust him.
Then he turns to leave, and I finally notice the gun tucked into the waistband of his sweats.
A sudden chill presses against every inch of me, like an icy hand slipping over my skin.
It’s black, mostly hidden beneath his shirt, but I know what I’m seeing. My attention locks onto it as the man crosses toward the door.
He said he isn’t going to kill me.
He also drugged me in an alley, kidnapped me, tied me to a bed, and now there’s a gun.
Maybe he needs me alive right now, but that doesn’t mean he’ll need me alive later.
He pauses by the doorway and glances back, his eyes cool in the dim light. “Stay in the bed.” I nod quickly. “Be good.”
Then he steps out, the door clicks shut behind him, and a heartbeat later, the lock turns, locking me in.
I stay perfectly still, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway. Once I can no longer hear them, I quickly scan the room.
This might be my only chance.
He expects me to stay in bed, and he probably thinks I’m too scared to do anything else. Normally, he’d be right.
Normally, the safest choice is to keep my head down and do whatever the dangerous man tells me until he gets bored.
That strategy has kept me alive for nineteen years, but I’ve also never been kidnapped before.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?
I have to do something now.
Even if it’s stupid.
