The only reason I kidnapped him was because he was stalking my friend, and with her now awol, I don’t know what other reason I have to hold him here.
“I’ll see in the morning.” I conclude, but for tonight I need to figure out a way to keep him shut in one place, without the risk of him attempting an escape again.
Without a word, I rifle through the kitchen drawer where I keep the rope, fingers brushing past spare batteries and oldtakeaway menus until I find it. For good measure, I grab the carving knife, the biggest one I own.
I can see it in his eyes—the way they track the blade, the flicker of calculation already setting in.
“I’m going to untie your legs and then tie them back together,” I say, my voice flat. “Since you clearly can’t be trusted not to bolt. And if you try anything?” I hold up the knife, steady in my grip like I actually know what I’m doing. “I’ll cut your balls off before you can scream.”
He doesn’t need to know the closest I’ve come to carving anything is hacking through supermarket rotisserie chicken with kitchen scissors.
“I’m being serious,” I warn again, never breaking eye contact as I loosen the knots anchoring him to the chair. He’s still bound tight, legs probably numb from inactivity—so if he’s thinking of lunging, it’d be a spectacularly bad move.
To his credit, he stays still. Watching. Maybe even a little impressed. Clearly, stalker boy isn’t used to taking orders.
It takes effort to secure the rope again, one-handed and fast, looping it tight around his legs with a final yank to test the hold. Not pretty, but effective.
His eyes never leave me. Tracking every shift of my weight, every flick of the blade in my hand. And when I move behind him, loosening the rope that held him to the chair back, his fingers twitch. Subtle, but enough to set my nerves alight.
“Try it,” I whisper, pressing the knife to the thick, pulsing vein at his neck.
It’s a strong neck. Shame if anything were to happen to it.
“I’m only stretching out, do you even understand how uncomfortable it is being tied to a chair for twenty-four hours?”
Even now, a full day into his capture, his scent clings to the air—aftershave laced with something darker, rougher. Earth and fire. It coils around my senses, stirring something I don’t want disturbed. My mouth waters.
No. Absolutely not. I’m shutting this down right now.
When I cut the last knot across his torso, I slip the knife higher, pressing the blade to his back—firm enough to prove I’m not playing games.
One wrong move, and he’ll feel just how serious I can be.
“Go to the bed,” I instruct, leaving no room for questions.
“Really?”
“Now,” I say again, pressing the blade just a touch deeper until he gets the message.
He hops forward—clumsy, off-balance—each bound more awkward than the last, until he lands in a graceless sprawl on the mattress.
Even though it’s a double, he dominates the space entirely, his frame swallowing it whole like it’s a child’s cot.
“Now what? Want to undress me too?” He’s teasing obviously. But it still heats my cheeks in a way it shouldn’t.
“Haha, you’re hilarious. Move up, I’m not sleeping on the floor. And if you try anything, Iwillcut you.”
“Easy tiger,” he counters, struggling to move with his hands tied behind his back.
He grunts a few times, shifting around in a clumsy attempt to get comfortable. I do feel for him—being trussed up on my bed isn’t exactly five-star sleeping conditions—but I can’t risk cutting him loose. Not yet.
Silence folds in around me, thick and smothering. My mind spins, images of what Darcy might be going through unspooling in the dark—each one worse than the last, each one my fault.
I’m coming for you, Darcy. I swear it.
She’s the only one who ever stood by me, who never backed down when everyone else did. She fought for me. Now it’s my turn to return the favour.
I try to stay alert, knife still pressed loosely to his ribs, but his breathing slows until it’s deep and heavy. He’s drifting.
