“Yeah. And it fucking worked too. Played me like a fucking fiddle.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“What did I say about apologizing?” He huffs. “I’m not going to let an innocent girl get hurt by some psychopaths if I can stop it. Even if it means I pay the price.”
I glance between his clenched jaw as he faces the doorway and his bloody wrists. Back and forth. I swallow hard.
His gaze jerks back to me as I push myself up onto my feet, wincing slightly at the pressure I’m putting on one scrape I have on the ball of my right foot. I take an unsteady step forward, eyeing him warily, but he just stares at me.
So I take another step. And another.
The chain around my ankle clinks with each step, a stark reminder of the fact that even though I can move around a lot more than he can, I’m still a prisoner here. I’m pretty sure the length of this chain was made so I could walk around the entire room, if I wanted.
That was probably intentional, considering how Jett seems to have planned everything about my place here.
I stop in front of his right wrist, glancing down at him.
“May I?”
“Go for it, sweetheart.”
I’m not sure what I can do, but I reach out and brush my fingertips against his corded forearm, my eyes widening at the strength there. I didn’t know forearms could be that muscular.
With my other hand, I brush against the thick metal cuff, locked around his wrist by a heavy padlock.
“Can you lift your arm for me a bit?” I ask.
“Sure.”
He raises his arm, making the muscles in his shoulders ripple and flex. I have to swallow hard and refocus myself. Now that there’s a bit more give, I’m able to slide the cuff about an inch higher along his wrist, revealing angry broken skin that’s slowly weeping blood.
It looks like it hurts. A soft, sympathetic noise leaves the back of my throat as I lift the hem of my borrowed t-shirt and wipe away some of the blood.
He lets out a soft growl that has me stopping in my tracks.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he growls, his voice sinfully smooth. “You’re giving me a show right now.”
I instantly drop the shirt and take a step back, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
He had a front-row seat straight up my shirt, with the angle he’s sitting at and with how high I had to lift the shirt to actuallyreach his wrist because of how tall he is. Even sitting down, his head almost comes to my chest.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say sorry, but I know he doesn’t like that, so I clamp my jaw shut.
“My—my bad,” I say, after taking a second to collect myself.
I fist my hands in the fabric of the t-shirt, pursing my lips and glancing back and forth between each of his wrists.
I crouch down, gripping the fabric and tugging with all my might.
“What the hell are you doing?” He asks, sitting straight up. “Just ‘cause I accidentally saw up your shirt doesn’t mean you should just go and rip it right off!”
“I’m not trying to rip it off,” I huff, dragging the hem of the shirt up to my teeth since just tugging it doesn’t seem to do anything. Once I tear past the hem, it’s a lot easier to tear a strip off.
He eyes me, his eyes sparking with approval.
“Smart girl,” he says.
The compliment makes a bright smile appear on my face as I step back up to his right arm. He lifts it without me having to prompt, and I use the strip of fabric to gently wipe away the blood.
