A cross. He's going to strap me to a cross and fuck me.
And people will see.
The cameras. Of course there are cameras. There were cameras at the auction, cameras in my apartment, cameras everywhere he wants them.
He gets off on watching me. On knowing other people are watching me too.
I should be horrified.
Instead, I'm so wet I can feel it on my inner thighs.
"This is fucked up, Scarletta," I mutter, but my hands are already reaching for the harness.
I step into the leg loops first, pulling them up around my thighs. The nylon feels secure against my bare skin. I fasten the waist belt, checking that it's snug but not cutting off circulation. Then I clip the chest strap and double-check every connection point.
My fingers are shaking but not from fear this time.
From anticipation.
He wants me to trust gravity and steel. To let go and fly down this line into whatever's waiting for me at Station Two.
And I'm going to do it.
Not because I'm brave—I'm definitely not brave—but because he's watching. Because he's waiting for me. Because every single thing I do here is proof that I trust him.
And maybe he'll reward me for it.
Maybe he'll finally let me come.
I walk to the edge of the platform, the harness clips jangling with each step. The zip line stretches out through the canopy, disappearing into the jungle below. I can't see where it ends.
I grab the overhead cable with both hands, feeling the solid steel beneath my palms.
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
"Okay," I whisper. "Exceed his expectations."
Then I jump.
The world drops away and I'm flying.
Actually flying. Wind rushing past my naked body, my hair whipping behind me, the cable singing above my head as the pulley races down the line.
A bird explodes out of the canopy right in front of me and I scream, half terror and half laughter, because what the hell else can I do? My feet dangle beneath me, completely useless, and the harness digs into my thighs in a way that's almost sexual, the pressure right where my legs meet my body.
I crash through a spider web and feel the sticky threads catch across my face and chest. I'm laughing now, really laughing, wiping frantically at my skin because, Jesus Christ there better not be a spider on me, but I can't stop grinning like an idiot.
This is insane.
This is completely fucking insane and I'm doing it.
Me. Scarletta Desmond, who hasn't left her apartment for anything except groceries and eviction notices in two years. Who ate Lucky Charms for dinner standing at her kitchen counter because sitting at a table felt too much like admitting she was alone.
I tilt my head back and look up at the canopy rushing past above me. Sunlight filters through the leaves in scattered patches, dappled gold and green, the kind of light photographers chase and I've only ever seen in screensavers.
It's beautiful.
God, it's so beautiful I could cry.
