The key.
For her chains.
She’s smart. She’s going to run.
She’s just not smart enough.
Her breath halts. Her jarring movements stop. It takes me several seconds of edged suspense to finally realize why she has stopped: Within my pants, against the thin material of my pocket, the hardness of my cock pulses with a bob that brushes her fingers. It’s the slightest move that seems to slam surprise and understanding right into her.
Because then she’s running.
I leap up before both of her feet even hit the floor. My chest slams into her soft body, and I twist to the side to take her back down on the bed. My body covers her small frame. A bounce of the mattress grinds her into me in a deliciously distracting way.
But not too distracted.
Not anymore
The weight of her breath fans over my jaw as I lean in to whisper sweetly in her ear.
“Do not.EVER. Run from me, Pretty Pet. Because Iwillhunt you. And Iwillenjoy it.”
EIGHT
Crymson
The strangerfrom last night isn’t playful anymore. He isn’t gentle with his touch. With a jerk of my chains, I’m pulled from the bed and stumble into his lean frame. His height towers over me but I lift my chin and push the rising anxiety down.
He’s strong. So strong, he faked his own death without any trouble at all. I heard him though! He wasn’t breathing!
He—
The confusion of how easily he tricked me is pushed aside, and I just try to think through everything.
Last night I was dancing with him. We smoked. I kissed him. And then—did he drug me? Was Van there? What the hell happened last night?
A reckless tremor shakes through me, but I dig my nails into my palms to stop it. I hate locks. I hate locked doors and this …thisis far worse than any locked room I’ve ever been thrown into.
I don’t crumble under pressure. I won’t. I can’t afford to.
I have to be smart. I’ll use what I have even if all I have are my looks.
It’s all I ever fucking have in life.
And I need that now more than ever.
“What will you do with me?” I ask with as much composure as I can force into my tone.
A rattling of chains is heard before the weight of them are taken from the bedframe to just my wrists and neck. I’m not free, but I’m not bound to the bed anymore either...
That’s . . .progress.
Faint golden light pours into the room as a solid stone door is opened without a sound. A long hallway is alit just in front of him. Every part of the house is white brick and warm candlelight. The arching curve of the door and the white stone make this place feel more like a castle than a house.
A mansion, maybe? Rich people do love to be over the top: double staircases that lead to the same damn place. Fireplaces in every room that never get used because of the smell natural firewood gives off. Front doors that are excessively large, imported from the fucking Kingdom of Narnia with an insurance policy on them to match.
Except... this doesn’t feel like that. It’s not a mansion. It’s not a house.
Where the hell are we?
