But still, my eyes roam his broad shoulders, the solid, sculpted muscles pressing against the tight black T-shirt he’s wearing.
I huff out a sharp breath.
“Just take these stupid things off my wrists so that I can go to the bathroom like a normal person,” I demand.
He tilts his head to the side, deciding.
Impatience gets the better of me and I kick the mattress, hurting my foot, but pretending I’m fine.
“Dammit, weirdo, have you got some kind of pee fetish? Are you going to give yourself a golden shower or something when you take the bucket away?”
He sneers and narrows his eyes at me.
“If you try anything, I’ll make sure you regret it. I haven’t finished making my coffee yet, and I’m in no mood to deal with you yet.”
“Oh gee, thanks for offering me some, too,” I snap.
To my relief, the asshole steps forward, pulling a key from his pocket. He slips it into the handcuffs and unclips one side,setting me free, but leaving me with a heavy steel bracelet on my left hand.
He steps aside, gesturing for me to walk.
In my head, I calculate my chances, but remembering how easily he tossed me around last night, I know they aren’t good.
He lifts me, with one freaking arm, and doesn’t even bat an eye over it.
I can’t win in a battle of strength, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try and outsmart him.
Men like him are dumb animals.
Brutal idiots with one-track minds.
As I walk, I start limping, just slightly.
When I’m sure I have his attention as he follows me towards the bathroom, I bend over, rubbing my ankle, putting on a little show.
“I think I sprained it,” I say weakly, glancing at him over my shoulder and pouting.
He says nothing.
His cold stare spikes into me.
“If you possibly have some painkillers for me…” I murmur, trying to make puppy eyes at him.
Still, he says nothing.
His stoic disinterest pisses me off. I end up pouting for real and storming into the bathroom in a huff. Reaching behind me, I slam the door with as much effort as I can muster to ensure it makes a really loud noise.
In the bathroom, I pee. I wasn’t faking that. I’ve been holding it for over an hour, and it was interfering with the minimal sleep I got.
Sighing in relief, I sit on the toilet and look around the dreary bathroom. It’s such a boy bathroom. Bland and boring and empty.
After I’m done, I take a good look at myself in the mirror. Sheesh, my hair is everywhere. My mascara is blotched beneath my eyes, and my cheeks are red.
No wonder my pouting didn’t work. I look like a clown.
Using the corner of a towel, I wipe the makeup clean and do my best to look presentable. It’s not that I care about looking good for him, but if I’m going to charm him, I need to look cute.
I have no elastic for my hair; it got lost at some point last night, so I braid it over my shoulder and try to twist the end so it doesn’t come loose.
