Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
After a moment of trying to shake my grip, she breaks, sobbing against my hand.
“Not a fucking sound,” I warn her. I’m bleeding all over both of us.
She keeps crying.
All right. It’s fine. I expected tears. I steel myself against them, making my expression ugly. “Scream again, and I’ll stop your breath. Understand?”
She nods against my hand. I release her mouth and use the hem of my t-shirt to staunch the flow of blood from my nose, one hand remaining caged around her throat.
She’s still crying. Not quiet, sniffling cries, but out-of-control sobbing. It seems like she’s winding herself up rather than getting something out.
I have plenty of experience with female tears. My sister soaks her pillow nearly every night with them.
“You’re okay. Listen to me, Kateryna. If you do as you’re told, you’ll get out of this unharmed.”
She focuses on my face, taking deep, gulping breaths. “G-get out of what?”
Blyad’. I should just keep my mouth shut. The less I tell her, the better.
“Wh-what are you going to do with me?”
I bring the sides of my thumbs to my nose to feel if it’s crooked, but it feels okay.
“I’m going to be sick,” she moans.
It might be a trick, but I believe her. She puked last night in the bushes and hasn’t had anything to eat since. Plus, she’s completely overwrought.
I curse and cut the plastic zip tie holding her wrists to the headboard with my penknife.
She pukes down the front of herself before I can get her up.
Fuck.
“All right,” I say, pulling her off the bed and onto her feet. Her wrists are still manacled together with another zip tie, but considering what she’s already done with her skull and her voice, I brace myself for anything she might try.
She seems docile now, though. More upset about the vomit down the front of her than her current situation.
“Let’s clean you up.”
I would put her over my shoulder, but I’m afraid she’ll vomit down my back. Instead, I propel her to the bathroom, holding her wrists with one hand and guiding her back with the other.
In the bathroom, she goes right for the toilet, dropping to sit on it and peeing as she cries softly. I grab some toilet paper and shove it up my nostril to stop the bleeding then wet a washcloth and wait for her to finish. She uses her bound hands to get some toilet paper.
“Does this turn you on?” she demands as she attempts to wipe herself using both hands. Her skirt gets in the way, so I lift it for her.
“Nyet.”
I flush the toilet for her and tug her up to stand, so I can clean her up.
“Let me go. Please.”
“I will let you go when my business is complete.”
“What business? What was the picture for?”
I mop her white blouse with the washcloth, turning it translucent. She has mess down her cleavage, and I work the washcloth between her breasts. They’re full and soft. The asshole in me wishes I’d seen them last night. Before we turned adversarial.
She grabs my wrist and brings her knee up, trying to nail my balls.
I sidestep and snatch her by her throat, pressing her up against the wall. “Don’t,” I warn.
She tries to knee me again, and I have to really cut off her air. She chokes and gasps, eyes bulging.
I hold her another moment to really instill fear in her, then I relax. “Knock it off, or you’ll spend the next two weeks tied spreadeagle to a bed.”
She studies me, her cornflower blue eyes ticking back and forth on mine. “Why two weeks? What’s happening?”
I release her throat and pull her away from the wall. “Back to the bed. You’re being a pain in my ass.”
“You’re being a royal dick,” she shoots back.
She’s not wrong. I take her back to the bed and reattach the zip tie that pulls her wrists over her head and connects them to the headboard.
I take each of her ankles and attach them to the foot of the bed spreadeagle. Then, because the sight turns my stomach, I take another photo. If it makes me sick, it will definitely destroy her dad.
Kat
“You bastard!”
Adrian–if that’s really his name–pockets his phone. “Are you going to keep your mouth shut, or do I need to put the gag back on?”
I try to kick my legs, which only succeeds in making the zip ties dig into the skin around my ankles. I’m scared–more scared than I’ve ever been in my life–but I’m also pissed.
This guy is a psychopath. He lured me into his place and then trapped me.
No, that doesn’t fit. He did lure me to his place and trap me, but there’s something rational and non-psychopathic about him. But it wasn’t him calling this business because what kind of non-psychopathic person kidnaps women and zip ties them to beds for work?