But I’m a mess. My hair is snarled, my face is drowning in a blanket of sweat and tears, and my outfit won’t stay up.
Bishop approaches me, dragging a hand over my shoulder, and moves behind me.What is he doing?
“In here.” A guard ushers Slade into the living room, and he immediately lays eyes on me.
A hand draws up the back of my neck, and Bishop fists my hair once more. I wince, and Slade tracks it all.
“Congressman DuPont. This is a surprise. What are you doing here?”
Slade continues to stare at Bishop petting me. My scalp stings, but I keep still and work to ignore the unbearable sensation flooding my senses.
I’m not sure why I don’t want to cry in front of Slade. For some reason, I yank the will from somewhere deep down to remain stoic. He’s probably wondering why I’ve ended up chained to the fireplace and haven’t used my GHB on the man.
“Oh. That’s right.” Bishop snaps with his free hand. “You don’t talk. Funny, I listened to your acceptance speech on election night. Voted for you, too.”
He snickers, and my trembling stops for a moment as I rack my brain, trying to imagine what Slade’s voice is like. Is it average, or deep and baritone? Does it soothe or incite a response? I pause at that, irritated.
“Can I get you a drink?”
Slade nods.
“Right this way.” Bishop releases my hair, and I slump with relief. But instead of moving, he kneels down next to me, inches from my face. His breath is rancid—a mix of alcohol and heavy garlic.
My body rebels, and I shake enough that the chains scrape against the marble floor. Bishop’s eyes are a deep green, hispupils blown wide, and from this close I can count the crow’s feet lines bursting around each eye.
I ignore him, choosing to focus on the pair of leather armchairs flanking the hearth.
Get out of my face, hovers on the tip of my tongue, but it never makes it out. One wrong breath and I’ll break—right here, right now. Under Bishop’s scrutiny, every muscle locks tight as I fight the panic bleeding through me. Whether Slade notices, I can’t tell. But his stare burns into me.
A sweaty palm lands across my face, and the sting is instant, in tandem with the loudSLAP.
An “Ahhh!” escapes from my parted lips before I snap them shut and bite my tongue so hard it bleeds. Heat blooms in my cheek, like a hot coal pressing into my skin. My head jerks sideways from the force, and several loose curls swing into my eyes.
My face throbs, but my pride burns hotter. They both watch me. One enjoying, the other …
Humiliation rushes in, settling a knot in my throat, and worse than the crack across my face are the tears pouring down.
“Shhh,” Bishop says. “There, there.” He hums again. “You are my sunshine, hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm-hmmm …”
Each note vibrates in the air, syrupy and slow, like he’s trying to put me to sleep. This child’s tune will forever be on my list of no-gos.
Slade stands there, unfazed by Bishop’s antics, like he’s done this before. Like the sound is part of his ritual. I hate that it echoes in my head.
Bishop continues to hum, staring at the spot where he hit me. Dread curls tight when he leans forward and licks the aching side of my face. I recoil, and he laughs.
As Bishop stands, I look toward Slade and nearly jump out of my skin. His expression is a storm—jaw clenched so tight hismuscles jump and twitch beneath his skin. His nostrils flare with ragged breaths, and through the frames of his glasses, his eyes burn wild.
“Let’s make this short. I can tell she’s going to be fun. Well … I’m sure you know.” He beckons Slade with him, and they both stride toward the kitchen. Or at least, that’s what I assume. I didn’t get to see much as I was manhandled from the SUV, through the garage full of expensive sports cars, and down the hallway.
For a moment, I sit staring after them.
Bishop laughs, glasses clink, and I’m still on my knees like a trained dog. The bindings scratch as I move, tugging at my wrists, and it hits me—I’m just sitting here. Waiting. Not doing anything.
I can’t do that anymore. I can’t sit and expect Slade to help me.
Desperate, I pull against the restraints, testing the length of the chain. The cruel metal digs into my skin, but I keep working it, flexing my wrists and fingers, fumbling over the links until they brush the hearth. I yank and tug, hoping for some give.
My fingertips graze over something sharp—a splintered piece of glass, maybe from a shattered tumbler? I’m not sure I want to imagine what may have happened. Was it an accident, or was this part of his play with the last girl?
