Fuck, I hate thinking about that. Seriously, where the hell am I?
Don’t panic. Don’t panic! Daphne, do not fucking panic.
But how can I not? I’m chained up in a room I’ve neverseen before, for Christ’s sake. The metal attaching me to the wall slinks across the laminate floor as I pace.
There are no windows, and the only door is at the top of the stairs. I already tried running for it, but the chain stopped me three feet from the bottom step.
I can make it everywhere in the room except for the stairs before the chain holds me back.
This doesn’t look like the setting for a scene in aSawmovie. I’m not caged. It’s not freezing cold, and I’m not boiling hot either. It’s cozy.
I can reach the bathroom, even the shower, but the vent is small, so there’s nowhere for me to climb out. Those stairs are my only escape.
Seriously, this room is a fire hazard.
Nothing hurts. My clothes are on—including my underwear. He didn’t… nope, not going to go there. If I let myself fall down that rabbit hole, I’ll trigger a panic attack. Now’s not the time.
As I pace, waiting for my captor to show up, my stomach gurgles. I check the minifridge, but it’s stocked with only bottled water and a two-liter bottle of Pepsi.
Okay, this guy’s definitely a psychopath. Who drinks Pepsi over Coke?
Think, Daphne. Think!You work for one of the oiliest men on Capitol Hill. You should be able to negotiate your way out of this.
God, why did kidnapping sound sexy in my dark romance books? It’s fucking terrifying in real life.
As I rack my brain for any scrap of an escape plan, the door creaks open and heavy footsteps thud downstairs. A pair of combat boots appears. Then long legs covered in black denim. Finally, I see a black hoodie covering the man’s head.
And a mask.
A Guy Fawkes mask turns slowly, those glossy black eyes staring at me.
Great. I’ve been kidnapped by a Pepsi-loving,V-for-Vendettapsycho. If this is a nightmare, please let me wake up.
I pinch my arm hard and wince.
He rushes forward, his hands raised. “Don’t! Please don’t hurt yourself.” That voice. The same gravely voice from Blondie at the bar.
He’s the fucker who kidnapped me?
“Just checking to see if I’m awake,” I mutter.
Guy nods, his mask moving up and down enough for me to catch the faintest glimpse of dark brown hair under that hoodie.
So, Blondie isn’t blond after all?
“Are you going to shoot me?” I ask.
The mask tilts slowly. “I don’t use guns. Sorry, but, um, this isn’t how I normally do things.”
“Excuse me?”
He lingers out of reach, but from a few feet away, I stare up at the mask. Black mesh covers the eyeholes, but I can’t make out the color of his eyes. Are they really brown? He looks paler, too. This can’t be the same guy.
But his voice…
“I don’t usually bring people back to my house. Kidnapping isn’t my forte.”
Then what is?
