Page 14 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

Then I walked over to Gavino, securing each of his ankles to the chair legs.

Finished, I figured he was as restrained as he was going to get. And he hadn’t screamed, so there was no need for the duct tape. Which was good because I needed him to talk. I had to get some answers.

“Am I properly restrained now?” he asked, that deep voice of his shivering over my skin. I’d been too freaked out when he’d been offering me his cash to notice it. But now that I was calmer—as calm as someone could be when you were holding a human being hostage, anyway—I was noticing.

You’d think God would spread the wealth around a bit more. He got to be rich, handsome, and have a panty-melting voice? It wasn’t fair to the rest of mankind.

When I said nothing to his comment (because I suddenly found my mind wiped completely blank of any fully-formed thought), his head cocked. “You know, I was waiting for that food. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Shut up,” I demanded. “Where is he?” His brows rose. “Where is he?” I said, almost yelling.

“I thought I was supposed to shut up.”

“Not when I ask a direct question. That’s the only time I want you to speak.”

His mouth twitched. “Good to know.”

“What?” I asked, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing. I just get the feeling you’re making these rules up on the fly.”

“You… you don’t need to know the origin of the rules. You just need to follow them.”

“And what happens if I break one?” he asked, a strange light in his eyes. Almost like he was enjoying this. “You do realize that broken rules should have consequences, don’t you?”

“There are consequences.”

Oh, God.

What the hell were the consequences? I mean, I’d seen all the shows and movies. Interrogating someone uncooperative usually came with sharp and blunt objects. Pain. Blood. Screaming.

My stomach roiled.

“And what are these well-thought-out consequences?” he asked.

My gaze cut to his.

“They involve pain.”

“Of course,” he agreed, nodding. “The five kinds.”

“The what?”

“The five kinds of pain. Sharp, blunt, hot, cold, and pressure.”

“Right. Yeah. Obviously.”

“So, what will it be? A lighter up my nostril? Burn the shit out of my sinuses?”

Bile swirled and surged up my throat, making me gulp hard. A full-body shiver worked its way up my spine as my mind tried to show me the mental image.

“Or maybe the tip of this steak knife shoved up under my fingernail?” he suggested.

I whipped away, gagging once hard.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to reason with my very weak stomach that he was just messing with me, that none of these things would happen, that it was okay to stop imagining them.

I took a few deep breaths and turned back, determined to get back on track.