She finishes eating, and when she’s done, she hands the wrapper back to me. I don’t move. I just stare.
“I’m…sorry,” she stammers, her voice shrinking. “Here.”
My eyes narrow. “I’m not your servant.”
Her cheeks flush pink. She looks down, fumbling, before scurrying to place the plate and napkin neatly in the corner of the room. Then she kicks off her sneakers, leaving behind chipped pink nail polish that I shouldn’t notice.
I leave the room, needing space, but when I return, rope is in my hand. Her eyes widen.
“No,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
I tie one of her wrists to the bedframe, not tight enough to cut off circulation but firm enough that she isn’t going anywhere. This close, I can smell her. Cherries. Sweet and sharp like candy.
She licks her lips. “I’m Chloe,” she says suddenly.
I pause, my brow furrowing. “Why are you telling me your name?”
She talks fast, words tumbling. “Because…because if I humanize myself, if you see me as a person, maybe you won’t kill me.”
I stare at her for a long beat, then laugh low in my chest. “That wouldn’t work.”
She blinks. “It might. So, what’s your name?”
I shake my head. “Cute.”
Her hand tugs at the rope, wincing when the fibers scrape her skin. My jaw clenches. That pang of guilt—fucking ridiculous but real—hits me.
She slides down onto the mattress, eyes heavy. “Are you going to sleep too?”
“Why?” I ask, my voice sharp. “Planning your escape, Chloe?”
Her lashes flutter. “No.”
And then she drops her head onto the pillow, curls up slightly, and within seconds she’s out. Asleep. Like she hasn’t just been kidnapped. Like she isn’t tied to a bed by a man she should be terrified of.
I stand there, staring down at her.
This girl has no survival skills at all. None. Not a single goddamn one.
Does she have any idea what I could do to her right now? Any idea what kind of man she’s dealing with?
Her lips part softly in sleep, gloss smeared, and her chest rises and falls beneath that cheer uniform that clings to her body. Her breasts lifting with every inhale, pressing against fabric too tight, too innocent.
I run a hand through my hair and curse under my breath.
Fuck.
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
Two hours have passed since she drifted off. And I should be asleep too, but I can’t shut my fucking eyes, not with the picture in front of me.
Her skirt has ridden up in her sleep, a sliver of bare thigh catching the dull light. The curve of her ass just there, the line where fabric meets skin. Chloe. Rich girl. Cheerleader. Kidnapped and tied to a mattress on a warehouse floor. She should look broken, terrified, but she doesn’t. Not right now. She looks soft. Peaceful. Almost sweet.
I hate how that does something to me.
She shifts a little, and I see more of her legs. Smooth. No hair. That perfect line from ankle to thigh that makes my throat tight. My cock stirs instantly, straining against my jeans, hard and heavy before I can blink.
