Kidnapped

Chapter Four - Cuffed.

I sink to the floor of the shower, spiraling into a fit of self-loathing. The disgust swells inside me, sickened by my own body's reaction to him-this complete lack of control. It feels vile, and I've never hated myself more than I do right now. A sob breaks from my throat, and before I know it, I'm crying uncontrollably-loud, pathetic wails that echo in the small space. My hands move weakly, trying to scrub away the shame, but the effort is futile.

The door swings open. I flinch, curling up as small as possible in the corner of the tub, my arms wrapping around my knees in a pathetic attempt to cover myself.

Without a word, he reaches in and shuts off the water. "That's enough. Dry off." His voice is calm but sharp as he drops a towel beside the tub, and then he leaves, closing the door behind him.

I sniffle, wiping at my eyes as I sit up, feeling the heavy emptiness of being alone again. With shaking hands, I wring out my hair, barely managing to gather myself enough to wrap the towel around my body. Taking a deep breath, I step out of the bathroom, my bare feet padding softly against the floor.

My eyes land on him immediately-lying on the bed, fully clothed, his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
But it's not him that sends a shiver through me-it's the gun resting on the nightstand beside him. The sight of it is crushing, heavy, an intentional reminder of the power he holds over me.

The main light is off, and the room is bathed in a soft, golden glow from the single lamp on the nightstand. It might have felt romantic, almost intimate, if everything weren't so horribly wrong.

There's only one bed, and he's sprawled right in the middle of it. I stand frozen by the door, eyes downcast. "I want to go home now," I whisper, my voice barely above a breath.

He doesn't respond with words, just shifts slightly and gestures to the clothes he's laid out on the edge of the bed-my bra, shirt, and shorts. His casual indifference twists something deep inside me, but I quietly gather the clothes in my arms and retreat to the floor, slipping them on over my still-damp skin, just out of his sight.

Once dressed, I move to the edge of the bed, careful to avoid looking directly at him. My movements are slow, deliberate, as if I can somehow make myself smaller, less noticeable. I can feel his eyes on me though, assessing, waiting.

From the corner of my eye, I catch him sitting up, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the chair in the corner. The way he moves is deliberate, almost lazy, as if he's in complete control of everything-including me. He's wearing a white tank top now, the fabric stretching tight across his strong arms, and the tattoos winding up from his forearms to his throat catch the light. I swallow hard, a shameful heat rising in me at the sight of him. He's nothing like the boys at my highschool, nothing like what I'm used to seeing every day.
My heart races as I glance away, embarrassed by my own body's betrayal.

"Stop looking at me like that," he says, his voice cutting through the stillness.

I flush, realizing too late that I had been staring, lost in my own thoughts. "I wasn't-" I begin, but the words die on my lips.

"Come here," he orders, now sitting at the edge of the bed. My pulse quickens as I force myself to stand and approach him. He reaches into the bag beside him, pulling out something metallic that glints in the low light. My stomach twists when I see the handcuffs-real ones, not the cute fluffy kind.

"You're really going to hate me now," he says with a smirk, holding up the cuffs.

I take a step back, shaking my head slightly, fear tightening my throat. "No," I whisper, the word barely audible.

"I'm sorry, did you think you had a choice?" he asks, his grin widening as he grabs my wrist with one swift motion. The cuff clicks around my wrist before I even have time to react.