Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Hannah
I jerk awake when I hear Armando come in, and Shadow, who was curled up in front of my chest, jumps off the bed and stretches.
I blink at the digital bedside clock. It’s been two hours since he left.
I slept fitfully for the last hour after I finally calmed myself down with slow breathing.
Now all the adrenaline of the stressful day rushes back, so I’m wide awake. And still very pissed.
He comes straight to my side and crouches in front of me. “You’re awake.” He peels the duct tape off my mouth.
“You’re an asshole.”
He ignores that and unties my bound wrists from the bedpost. The moment they’re free, I swing them at his face. His reflexes are way faster than mine. He snaps them up in an iron grip. “Hey.” He modulates the grip, loosening slightly. “You want to spend the night tied up?”
“Go to hell.”
He stops work on the knot on my tights and arches a stern brow.
It’s tragically sexy, which pisses me off even more.
I shouldn’t find any of this hot. He’s confused me with sex, blurring lines, so I can’t tell what’s what.
Actually, I guess I’m the one who started it with that kiss back at the shop.
But now, I’m a jumbled mess. It’s like I just willingly dove headfirst into an abusive relationship where I’m bonded to my abuser, craving his affection and ignoring the fact that he’s holding me prisoner.
It’s way worse than all the misguided relationships I’ve been in.
Worse than Jarod, who cheated on me three times before I stopped believing he was sorry.
Worse than Eric, the guy it took me six months to realize only thought of me as his booty-call.
This is the definition of a toxic relationship.
It’s not even a relationship. It’s Stockholm Syndrome.
Ragey tears fill my eyes again, and I fight some more, wrestling to get my bound hands free.
He tightens his grip, dropping a knee on the bed to hover over me, pushing my hands closer to my chest to trap me. “Hannah.”
“You stink of cigar smoke,” I hurl at him, like he’s a lover come home late from a night of partying with the boys.
Then I catch another cloying scent on top of it, and my stomach drops out.
“Oh my God! You’re covered in shitty perfume!
You fucking dick!” I’m unprepared for the flood of betrayal that fills my lungs.
“Hey, hey, hey, hey.” He straddles me. Somehow, he worked the knot loose on the tights while I flail at him, and he pins my wrists down beside my head.
One wrist is still wrapped in the fabric.
I keep fighting him, the pain of my stupidity for screwing this guy gushing like blood between us.
“I was at a strip club,” he says like that makes it all better.
When my mouth elongates in horror, he adds quickly, “For a meeting. ”
Right. Apparently when you’re in the mob, that’s where meetings take place. On second thought, I’m inclined to believe that part.
“Everyone bought me dances because I’m fresh out. I wasn’t into it, Flowers.”
“Oh, I’m sure you weren’t.” My voice drips with hurt and sarcasm.
His face contorts into scorn. He normally shows so little in his expression that it takes me aback. “You think I needed that shit? After what you gave me?”
I go still.
After what you gave me.
Armando’s face hovers inches from me, his hazel eyes sparking. There’s frustration in him. Passion. I feel it through his skin, but it doesn’t harm my body this time—it feeds it.
“If you fucked another woman tonight, I’d cut off your dick.
” I may be his prisoner at the moment, but I’m still going to make myself clear.
I’m not stupid enough to believe our sex today meant anything—I didn’t take it as a promise or a commitment.
It just happened. But I would take huge offense to him dipping his wick elsewhere after what we did.
“I didn’t, Hannah. I didn’t even want to be there. I swear to Christ.” He suddenly looks so weary. His eyes, ancient. “And you had me worrying about a fucking fire the whole time.”
Well.
That’s sort of satisfying, too.
I’m still pissed but growing mollified.
He pulls the wrist with the tights still wound around it to the bedpost and starts retying it.
Fresh alarm rings through me. “What are you doing?”
“Rinsing the smell off.” He pulls my other wrist up and secures it, too.
For me, a little voice whispers.
“You are such an asshole.”
He’s back to cool and indifferent, his face the brutal mask. “Been told that.” He heads to the bathroom and leaves the door open while he strips out of his clothes.
I watch. He’s not putting on a show for me.
He probably left the door open to make sure I don’t scream or try anything, but it’s a show worth watching, nonetheless.
I saw him naked earlier, but that was up close, and I was half out of my mind with lust. Now, I can observe him clinically.
And he’s even more impressive the second time.
He’s solid muscle. Six-pack abs, the kind you could climb.
He’s not shiny. Not tanned and waxed and all-American.
He’s hairy, brutal, and strong. He’s grit and manliness.
My dad is a kind, working-class man whom I deeply respect and love. He’s a big, strong guy who can fix anything with his hands. He works in construction as an electrician. Union guy.
Even though Armando is more of the slick Italian suit type, there’s something about him that resonates for me.
Some similarity between them that hits me on a biological level.
My brain imprinted my father as the archetypal man.
Armando fits the archetype. He’s strong. Take charge. He gets shit done.
Armando steps into the shower. He’s quick about it, soaping everywhere and rinsing off in no more than two minutes.
He pulls on his boxer briefs after he dries off and returns to the side of the bed. He doesn’t speak as he unwinds my tights from the bedpost. He doesn’t untie my wrists, though.
Maybe he thinks I’ll try to punch him again.
I still might.
He climbs in the bed beside me. I keep my back to him, my shoulders hunched. I’m still nursing my piss-off.
When he molds his body to mine and wraps an arm around my waist, I swing my bound arms back to elbow him. He’s too fast. He catches my wrists and ties the loose end of the tights to his own wrist. Ah. Now I understand. He wasn’t trying to spoon me. He’s attaching himself to me.
I imagine he considers it to be kinder than keeping me tied to the bedpost. I guess it is. This position’s better, anyway.
And I secretly enjoy the feel of his arm draped over me, the weight of it. It’s centering. Comforting in ways it shouldn’t be. It’s been a long time since I’ve been held by a man, and I forgot how much I love it. The scent of soap and clean skin enters my nostrils.
His cock twitches against my ass.
“We’re not having sex again,” I say firmly. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself.
“Understood,” he rumbles.
“I mean, ever.”
“Shh, Flowers. Go to sleep.” He wraps his big hand over the top of my bound ones, almost like we’re holding hands.
Because I hate how much I like it, I say, “I still think you’re an asshole.”
He doesn’t answer, and I start feeling guilty, like I should worry about hurting his feelings.
Then he speaks. “Listen, I know you’re pissed, Hannah. But trust me, tying you up and leaving you here was the best option I had.”
I turn my head in his direction, staring angrily at the ceiling. “That is such bullshit.”
“Would you rather I left you tied in the van in the strip club parking lot? Or—fuck. I’m not even going to tell you the other possibilities.” Frustration laces his words.
A shiver runs up my spine because I suspect they involve getting rid of me—the only witness to his crime—permanently.
And I’m suddenly as weary as he looks. Maybe I’m just soaking in his state, but it’s a crushing weight. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, and one slides down my nose. “What about the option where you just trust me? I told you I won’t talk. When will you believe that?”
Armando is silent behind me, but his body is stiff and tense. His arm has tightened around me and so has his grip on my hands. Finally he exhales loudly into my hair. “I do trust you, Hannah. It’s just that the stakes are too high here to go on trust. If I make a mistake, it will cost me my life.”
Okay, those are high stakes.
“I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire. I really am. But shit went down that I didn’t plan, and now I’m just trying to manage the mess.”
“And I’m part of that mess.”
“You’re the only good part,” he says. I think I feel his lips brushing the back of my neck, and I try to stifle the shiver of pleasure that runs through me. Try to steel myself against his words, even though I believe him. I know they’re true.
“Don’t leave me tied up again.” Tears clog my voice.
He pulls my body back against his snugly. “I’m sorry, Flowers.”
Earlier I was sure sleeping with my wrists bound would be impossible, but I already find myself sinking into a deep relaxation, the heat and weight of Armando’s body like one of those weighted blankets that are supposed to be so soothing.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Hannah,” he rasps into the darkness.
He already has. But I think he knows that.
I’m an emotional sponge, and that makes me soak in all his feelings.
So I believe him. I have compassion for his situation. But it doesn’t mean we’re not speeding toward a brick wall. Or that it won’t hurt like hell when we crash.