I rotated my wrists and swung my arms as I turned around. “I doubt I’ll be that fast getting you undone.”
“Just don’t make it any tighter while you work it. That fucknut about broke my wrist when he chased me down.”
Her left wrist was puffy.
“It’s probably sprained,” I muttered.
I bent at the waist and studied the knot. It was intricate but not a task I couldn’t handle. I set my hands in motion, ignoring when she growled in pain—many times.
Ten minutes passed, and her rope fell to the floor.
“Hell, I think you did more damage than good.”
I glared. “You can yell at me later.”
“Right.” She rubbed at her wrists while walking to the glass door, her head tilting as she examined it. “You said the whole thing moved when you kicked it?”
“I’m pretty sure it did.”
She lifted her right boot and slammed the bottom of it against the door, leaning back with the hit.
Screech.
The enclosure moved a half inch, scraping on the concrete floor.
Megan grinned. “We can work with this.”
That wasn’t to be, though.
The door across the room opened.
Our heads snapped in that direction.
“Uh, who called for the hottie?” Megan whispered.
My eyes popped wide. “He had better not be the ‘master.’”
If he was, we were in for a world of hurt.
Of the white tiger variety.
Mr. Finn Baker stood in the doorway, his eyes professionally scanning the room, including his assessment of Megan and me, his glacial gaze running down our frames in a quick but thorough study. He walked forward two steps, eyeing the scary ass mannequins, the two knives in his hands twirling through his fingers as if he wanted to slice through the heinous things.
Poppy stepped from behind him, her tiny frame hidden before. Her eyes widened at the sight of the mannequins, and her features drew tight in fear. She shouted in terror, “I knew this dress was a bad idea!”
