bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter thirty-three.

Case came back into consciousness, goopy peanut-butter brain drowsy with confusion. No light at the end of a tunnel. No dreams or hallucinations. No recap of the last eighteen years flashing before his eyes. A migraine constricted around his skull. If he was in pain, that meant one thing:

I'm still alive.

He groaned, stirring. Why was he still alive? He tried to access his memory—What had happened when he passed out? What happened before, his fight with Sir, why had he eaten the Reese's pieces?—but it was all a shadowy and fuzzy.

Fuzzy . . . fluffy . . .

A blanket, soft and warm, hugged his body. A pillow cradled his achy head and stiff neck. A mattress contoured itself around him, like sponge trying to absorb him into the realm of sleep. Case slackened, tempted to drift back into the peace of unconsciousness. Fabric brushed against his bare skin. Bare arms. Bare torso. Bare ass. Where were his clothes? Wait, had he been wearing clothes? Shit, he couldn't remember.

Temples pounding, he peeled open his eyes and squinted through bleary vision.

Case wasn't in the basement anymore.

Light—cool and bluish, like the dawn before it'd been warmed by the morning sun—diffused through the room. A dark-wood bedside table had a light coat of dust on its surface, save for a clear circle that could've recently been the resting place of a lamp or coaster. A mid-century loveseat was pushed against the wall, disheveled by a crumpled blanket draped over the seat, and squashed cushions-for-pillows stacked into the corner of the armrest. Sheer fabric had caught and bunched against the top of the loveseat as someone had opened the curtains overhead.

Dawn lit the window. The outside world was white. Blank. Nothing. But oh, so bright.

Emotion flooded Case, and he made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Forgetting his drowsy-sluggishness, he moved, wanting to get closer to the window.

Metal rattled against something solid.

Suddenly, he became aware of the tingly-achy-numbness in his wrist. He flexed his fingers, realizing the circulation in his hand had been cut-off. A silver bracelet circled his wrist. No, not a bracelet. A handcuff.

No. Case yanked at the cuff, following the link chain locked to the bedpost. Shit.

Panic started to rise, but he took a breath. Told himself to be calm. Of course, Sir wouldn't have made it that easy for him. So, he had to be smart, keep cool. Assess his new surroundings.

Only one of his wrists was locked to the bed. He rolled onto his back, his brain bobbing like a buoy caught in the waves. Above him, wooden beams ran across a vaulted ceiling. The severed head of a taxidermy deer watched over him. He pushed himself up by his heels, wanting a better scope of the room—no, bedroom—but realized that beneath the heavy duvet he was bound at the ankles.

Okay, he thought, blowing out a long breath. He needed to focus. Needed to think.

Obviously, Sir had put him here. Why?

The voice started to wonder, why would Sir save him?

Don't worry about that, he told himself. That wasn't important now. Now, he had to figure out his chances for escape. He could literally see the outside world, but if he was chained to a bed then he was no closer to freedom than if he was still locked in the basement. God, think.

Case tried to use his free hand to undo the cuffs. There was no safety latch, and no way he was going to squeeze his hand through the wristlet.

He followed the link-chain to the bedpost. Realized the other end was secure to the rail, and definitely coming free there, either.