Chapter 4

Kristen

The handcuffs clack loudly against the pipe as I sway slightly in my heels, my balance still not quite returned to me.

I don’t know how I managed to get myself into this fucking mess, but I’m bound and determined to find my way out of it.

Emphasis on the bound.

I wrap my fingers around the chains holding me, pulling against them with as much strength as I can manage.

Nothing. Not so much as a creaking sound rewards my efforts.

These clearly aren’t your garden variety novelty cuffs, which means this asshole means business.

Exactly what business remains to be seen.

Still holding the chains in a death grip, I slowly lift my feet from the ground. If my strength can’t break me out, maybe my weight will.

Again, nothing.

I bite back on the groan that tries to escape me, frustration boiling through my veins.

I have no idea why I’ve been brought here, who I pissed off, or how I managed to do it. Though admittedly, there are some definite possibilities.

I know I haven’t exactly been a shining example of good behavior.

But to be chained in some desolate fucking warehouse without any answers, and in this godawful dress, no less? Well, this seems a step beyond anything I might deserve.

I’m gonna die in this fucking dress.

Talk about cruel and unusual.

I’d rather die naked than in this monstrosity.

With a sigh of defeat, I set my feet back on the ground, tottering even more after the expended effort.

There’s a fucking cloud fogging up my mind, and I can’t seem to get clear of it.

I actually shake my head. Which, of course, only serves to make me more dizzy.

I feel eyes on me, prying gazes roaming across my skin. It’s not Leo, who I can plainly see isn’t even looking at me now.

It’s someone else. If I had to guess by the feel of it, multiple someones. Guarded faces hidden somewhere in the shadows of this hellhole.

I raise my head, trying to get my eyes to focus. The spotlight is damn near blinding, though, making me squint whenever I look in that general direction.

This time, I do groan, roughly yanking at my chains and hearing the satisfying clangs as they repeatedly strike the pipe.

“Why the fuck did you bring me here?” I demand.

Obviously, I’m not gonna be able to Houdini my ass out of here, and seduction didn’t really have the desired effect either. So, I guess I’ll have to take a more direct approach.

Leo finally turns back to me, the smirk now noticeably absent from his face.

“Oh, come on, Kristen, is that what we’re gonna do here? We’re gonna play dumb?”

“No, Leo or whatever the fuck your name is, we’re not. In fact, playing with you is what got me into this mess in the first place. Fuck if I’ll do that again.”

He laughs, a sound totally devoid of humor.

“Really, is that what got you into this mess? I don’t think so.”

I pull harder at my chains, ignoring the way they bite into my wrists at the movement.

“Just tell me why I’m here, you son of a bitch!”

He takes a step closer to me, half a smile forming on his face.

It wasn’t very long ago that I was pondering just how perfect that face is. Now, I’d like nothing better than to break it.

“You’re here,” he says, “because you’re apparently as bad at gambling as you are at judging character.”

There might be a valid point in there.

If so, I choose to ignore it.

I channel my best Cruella Deville laugh, leaning forward and trying my best to close the gap between us despite the pain that flares in my wrists.

“Well, I guess that’s something we have in common.” I spit out, gritting my teeth around the words.

“And what makes you think that?” he asks, daring to take another step in my direction.

“Because you have so clearly fucking underestimated me.”

He opens his mouth as if to reply, but apparently thinks better of it. Closing his lips around whatever he had meant to say, he stands perfectly still, his eyes locking onto mine for a long moment.

I feel like he’s staring into my soul, judging me. For the briefest of moments, my heart thumps at the intensity of his gaze, chills running down my spine.

I can’t pretend that it’s fear eliciting the reaction, as much as I’d like to. The simple fact of the matter is: I’m not afraid.

So this is something else entirely.

The moment, however brief, seems to drag on a long time; ending abruptly as he glances away.

When he speaks again, his voice is different. Somehow softer.

I don’t trust the change for a second.

“Do you know what you’re here for?” he asks, glancing back in my direction.

I look pointedly upward at the cuffs before wriggling my eyebrows at him. “I’m guessing…fetish?”

He actually laughs at that one, a small chuckle escaping as he turns away.

“Cute,” he says simply, bending to grab something out of my eye line.

“Does that mean you’re gonna keep me guessing?” I ask, watching as he walks back toward me.

He ignores my question, his eyes focused on whatever he’s holding in his hand.

I follow his gaze, actually feeling a surge of fear as I see the box cutter in his fist.

What fresh hell is this?

“I’m gonna have to cut you out of that dress,” he says by way of explanation.

Not exactly ideal, but a far cry better than the buffalo bill scenario that was already starting to play through my head.

“All you had to do was ask,” I say, grinning nastily across at him.

I don’t step back as he nears; neither do I beg or protest. With a force of will, I keep the smile cemented to my face, loving every ounce of the confusion that it seems to conjure on his.

He reaches a hand out when he’s in front of me, grasping the neckline of my ridiculous bridesmaid’s dress in one hand as he brandishes the box cutter in the other.

With torturous slowness, he brings the knife forward, sliding it slowly through the flimsily fabric.

The layers of gaudy material give way easily, slicing cleanly down the center with a sound like tearing paper.

He keeps his eyes focused on mine while he works, his gaze odd and intense.

“You might wanna watch what you’re doin’ there,” I suggest, looking pointedly towards my exposed skin.

To my unending surprise, he actually listens, lowering his gaze to the task at hand.

I feel the box cutter snag briefly on my bra before slicing through that as well, the thin lace popping open down the center.

Still, he slides the instrument further.

My ribs, my stomach…inch by inch, I feel cool air washing over my skin; which, obviously, explains my goosebumps.

The reason for my shortness of breath, on the other hand, well, I’ll need a moment to figure that one out.

He works his way ever lower with surprising skill, never getting too near to my skin, never needing to go back over a portion of missed fabric.

“Oh, Leo,” I say, purposely making my voice breathy, “I think you’ve done this before.”

I swear I get another real laugh at that one. Short and quiet, sure, but real, nonetheless.

I wriggle my hips a little for emphasis, feeling his free hand snake up to still me.

“Stop moving,” he demands, returning to his surly demeanor.

I’m about ready to do it again—hell, I’ll do a jig if it gets his fucking hackles up—but he reaches my underwear in the next second.

Some things just aren’t worth the risk.

I feel the knife pull at delicate lace, hear the way it slips easily through it. It’s not long before I feel the same lace pool around my feet, effectively destroyed in no time at all.

Considering the current location of his head, I’m actually a little surprised when he doesn’t even slow.

Focused as ever, he slides the box cutter through the remainder of my dress, slitting the hem easily and letting it fall to the floor.

I glance down at it, honestly not even a little upset to see it go.

It really was a fucking ugly dress.

Like I said, I’d rather die naked.

He stands up straight as he finishes his task, his eyes once again shining across at me.

“Aw,” I whine, “done so soon?”

He rolls his eyes.

“Then how about you let me out of these next?” I say innocently, staring up towards my restraints.

If I have to hear a humorless laugh one more time, I swear I’m gonna lose my shit.

“Nice try,” he says simply.

Son of a bitch.

“Look, asshole,” I shout, “I’ve had about enough of whatever the hell this is, so why don’t you be a good boy, go fetch the keys, and let me out of these fucking things!”

He doesn’t answer, simply reaches down to pick up the remains of my dress instead.

“Hey!” I shout again.

Nothing. Not even a glance in my direction.

He takes a section of my dress in either hand, pulling at the fabric until he tears off a single, long strip.

“What the hell are you doing now?” I ask, watching as he further mutilates my clothes.

He turns back to me quickly, crossing the space between us in a flash of movement.

“Enough,” he says, his voice eerily calm.

“The hell—”

I feel the fabric press into my open mouth, the taste of cheap material heavy on my tongue.

Again, with disturbing ease, he reaches behind my head, cinching the fabric into a tight knot at the base of my skull.

I scream angrily into it, the sound infuriatingly muffled now.

He looks levelly at me, that eerily calm expressing cemented back onto his face.

“Scream all you want, sweetheart,” he tells me, a flash of something—pity?—in his eyes as he points behind him with a jerk of his thumb. “They’ll like that.”