I stare at the ceiling, fury buzzing under my skin. Thenerve of him. The calm. The way he looked at me like this was all already decided.
My heart is still racing, but it’s anger fueling it now, not fear.
I force myself to breathe. Mouthing off isn’t helping. As much as I hate it, I know better than to keep slamming into a wall that won’t move.
I swallow and call out, loud as I can manage. “Hey. Come back.”
Silence.
Then, quieter. Controlled. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
The word tastes awful coming out of my mouth, but it’s all I have.
There’s a pause long enough that I think he’s ignoring me on purpose. Then the door opens.
He steps back inside, watching me with that same unreadable expression.
Whoever he is, he’s not panicked. Not sloppy. And that’s the part that scares me most.
Because men who take Laurent Boudreaux’s daughter by accident don’t look like this.
Which means he didn’t stumble into this.
He chose me.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up, dark ink visible along his forearms, the kind you are drawn to but don’t know why.
There’s a quiet strength in the way he moves, every shift of his body controlled, like he knows he doesn’t need to prove anything.
His eyes are intense, focused on me with a look that’s as disarming as it is frightening. They’re sharp, calculating, cutting through any façade I might put up.
But there’s something else there, something harder to place. There’s a kind of stillness that’s unsettling, as if nothing I do or say could shake him.
“Thought better of it, huh?” he says. His tone is even more patronizing than before. If my hands weren’t tied, I’d already be bleeding knuckles.
I swallow down the smart remark burning in my throat when I remember I am going to try a different tactic.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, keeping my voice even.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly weighing whether to trust me or not. Finally, he steps forward and begins undoing the restraints. I feel a surge of relief as the pressure on my ankles and wrists eases. As the circulation returns, painful tingling fills my arms and legs.
“Bathroom’s through that door,” he says, jerking his head toward a small adjoining door leading to what I can assume is an ensuite bathroom.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll step out. You get one minute.
“If you try anything, this gets a lot less comfortable.”
I glare back, fighting the instinct to snarl something at him. Instead, I nod curtly, holding my tongue as he backs out of the room. The door shuts firmly behind him, and for the first time, I can breathe.
I rub my wrists, trying to ease the red, angry marks caused by the belts.
I don’t recognize the clothes I’m wearing. Someone changed my clothes. Sweatpants. A T-shirt. Practical. The realization makes my stomach twist anyway.
I glance around, eyes darting across every surface, every inch of the room, hoping, praying, that he was careless enough to leave my phone.
But it’s empty, not a single thing left behind. The room is bare by design.
