The chair wobbles as I wedge it against the brick wall for stability. My sweat’s pooling. My heart’s thumping. And I’m praying the whole contraption doesn’t betray me at the worst possible moment. One wrong jolt and this becomes a whole new crime scene.
Limb by limb, I hoist him up—no finesse, just brute effort and desperation. He’s folded awkwardly, like a broken doll, slouched so low he looks half his actual size.
But he’s in. That’s what matters.
By the time I step back, I’m wheezing, heart pounding, and sweat trickles down my neck. Not to mention the fact that the chair creaks like it’s offended.
Honestly, same.
And the wheelchair?
A complete disaster.
What I’d hoped would be a smooth, inconspicuous getaway turns into a full-body workout from hell. He’s far too heavy for me to lift in and out of the car, so I ditch the idea entirely and take the back route home—less eyes, and far fewer questions.
Between the looming buildings and grimy alleyways, I force the chair forward, leaning my full weight into it with every step. The wheels catch on every loose slab, every crack in the pavement, each one a fresh insult.
By the time I reach the familiar outline of home, I’m soaked in sweat and practically vibrating with fatigue, but hey—mission technically accomplished.
Thank God the building has lifts. Explaining this to the landlord would’ve been… memorable.
He groans—low, wet, and inconvenient. A twitch Idonotwelcome. So just to be safe, I give him another swift crack to the head. Nothing personal. Just business.
I just wish Darcy would answer her bloody phone!
Boomerang takes one look at the wheelchair when I make it into safety, then back to me before darting into his frog bed, tucked away in the corner of the kitchen.
At least he’s out the way for now. Something tells me he’s not going to be too fond of our visitor though.
I stare at the metal chair in my bedroom like it personally betrayed me. It seemed like a brilliant idea a few hours ago—now I’ve got no clue how I’m supposed to get him into it.
Eventually, I force my body to move, muscles protesting as I begin the gruelling task of hauling this absolute tank of a man. I’ve never felt muscle like his, it’s ridiculously solid. It shifts under his clothes like he’s been carved out of regret and gym hours.
Not that I’m complaining. If you’re going to abduct someone, might as well be someone easy on the eyes. And stalker boy? Yeah… definitely my type. Unfortunately. Not that he’d ever give me the time of day. No one ever does.
And honestly, it is not a helpful thought while dragging unconscious beefcake in a wheelchair. What he thinks of me—or doesn’t—should not be taking up real estate in my head right now. But there it is. Loud and inconvenient.
“Ugh,” I groan, trying to line up the wheelchair with the chair like I’m executing a delicate medical transfer instead of dragging around an unconscious giant. I was hoping for a smooth, graceful swap. Naturally, the universe has other plans.
“Three, two, one…” I brace myself and lift—or try to. The second I shift his weight, pain shoots straight up my spine andinto my neck. My body’s one wrong move away from folding in on itself like a camping chair.
He ends up half-draped across the chair like a drunk mannequin. I stagger back, hands on my hips, surveying the mess. Something’s jamming the process. His legs. Of course. They’re like tree trunks wrapped in trousers, tangled and immovable. It takes a solid minute of grunting and awkward twisting, but I finally wrangle him into something vaguely seated.
Now all that’s left is to tie him down. Easy, right?
All those years in Scouts have finally paid off—not in the wild with tents and marshmallows, but here, in my bedroom, tying up an unconscious stalker. Honestly, if someone had told me this is where life would take me, I’d have paid a lot more attention during the knot lectures.
I grab the jute rope, the coarse twist firm in my hands, and settle on a double column tie for his wrists. It’s muscle memory now—looping the rope smoothly around both arms, keeping space between skin and binding to avoid nerve pressure, anchoring it snug but not cruel. A few firm cinches, and the tension locks into place. I thread the ends down behind the chair and wrap them around the cold metal spine, pulling tight, testing the give. None. Solid.
Then it’s onto his legs. I crouch, repositioning him, and reach for a new length of rope. The chair legs are narrow and round, perfect for a clove hitch—the kind that grips tighter under pressure. I loop once, then twice, forming the stacked Xs, and pull sharply. To be sure, I add a half hitch below it, a little insurance policy against wriggling. The rope creaks as I tighten it, sinking into place like it knows exactly what’s expected.
By the time I’m done, he’s bound firm, wrists and ankles anchored, breathing slow and shallow. I sit back on my heels, sweat trickling down my spine, the rope burns fresh across my palms. Not bad for someone who barely passed the fire-building badge.
Just to be extra sure I add an extra length of rope around his torso, wrapping it a few times around him and the chair, just in case. You never know how well someone can escape knots. Though I doubt he’s going to be able to do anything now, he’s well and truly captured.
11
Cam
