Chapter 3
Grace
I’m naked.
The first thought that comes to my mind after I wake up is as confusing as it is frightening.
Why am I naked? And why can’t I move my arms and legs?
My eyes fly open as sudden shock floods my body with vigorous speed. White emptiness stares back at me, from the ceiling, the walls, and the wooden door to my left. The windowless room is small and there’s nothing in here other than the bed I’m lying on.
The bed I’m tied to.
I’m lying on my back like a starfish, with all fours stretched out and each limb chained to the bed frame with metal cuffs attached to a chain. I yank at them, a helpless gesture that instantly kills any hope of being able to free myself from this predicament.
Why am I here? How did I get here?
I jumped. That’s the last thing I remember. I’d been counting the days until I was allowed to leave the ward for a few hours, itching with anticipation, because it has been so long since I last flew. I knew exactly where to go, not hesitating a moment as I called for an Uber to bring me to the shore. That jump was all I could think of for weeks, and when I finally stood on top of the cliff my heart was beating so fast that I got dizzy with excitement. I had to sit down and gather myself for a few moments, keeping my gaze locked on the horizon while I bathed in a surge of adrenaline.
I live for these moments. The moments right before the jump are almost as good as the fall itself. Almost.
But what happened after my feet left the cliff? Why do I remember sitting up there and jumping, but nothing after that?
And why am I not as scared as I should be?
I am bare naked, tied to a bed in what I assume to be a basement room and completely at the mercy of whoever did this to me—yet, I don’t feel the urge to scream, to freak out, to cry about the life I may be about to lose. Instead, I am filled with wonder, with confusion, and a dangerous kiss of curiosity.
That all changes in an instant when I hear a noise outside the door. It starts with approaching steps—telling me that the door is not soundproof and thus probably not very heavy—before I hear the sound of a key being pushed into the lock.
My pulse speeds with fear and I begin yanking at my confinements again, while my eyes are glued to the door. The lock turns painfully slowly, as if to mock me, and when the door finally opens, I can’t suppress a gasp of surprise.
Because I remember now. I remember all of it.
The man who walks into the room is not a stranger. Tall and broad-shouldered, with black hair, gelled to the side, and striking blue eyes, that stand out against his tanned skin. His features are almost catlike with his partly slanted eyes and the clean-shaven diamond jawline. He’s handsome in a captivating and peerless way—which is exactly why I remember him.
I’ve seen him before, several times actually. At the ward. He was walking down the corridor with one of our ward physicians once, deeply engaged in conversation. And another time, he paid a short visit to one of our group sessions, quietly sitting in the back while we had to listen to our rambling therapist, who was obviously trying to impress this man.
He stood out, impossible to miss, not only because of his dark suit, that was salient like black ink on paper against the white walls and coats inside the ward.
He’s not wearing a suit now, but a pair of dark denim jeans and a black shirt with short sleeves, revealing his muscular arms.
At the ward, I never dared to look at him for long. I was too afraid to meet his gaze, too afraid to be seen by him.
Where is that fear now?
Why am I more excited than scared to see him?
And who he is?
He closes the door behind his back as soon as he’s inside the room, denying me even the smallest glimpse to the outside. Balancing a tiny teapot and a matching mug on a wooden tray, he approaches the bed without even looking at me. He sits down next to my waist and carefully unfolds wooden legs that were hidden underneath the tray so it turns into a little table, which he places next to himself on the mattress.
And then he turns to look at me—and I find my former concerns validated.
He sees me, really sees me. It feels as if he’s looking right into my soul when our eyes meet, and I have to fight the urge to evade his invasive gaze. It would be a sign of weakness to look away—and I don’t want him to think that I’m afraid of him. I don’t want to give him anything to feed off, no fear, no indication of inferiority on my part. Nothing.
“How are you feeling?”
His voice is deep and oddly calming. And he speaks in a nonchalant manner, as if I’d just woken up from a random nap while battling a cold.
I don’t deign him with a response. Instead, I glare at him through narrow eyes, quietly letting him know that I won’t play along with this sick game. I won’t give him the pleasure of answering this dumb question, nor will I scream for help or plead for mercy. He doesn’t deserve to hear my voice—at least not yet.
“Well, you look good to me,” he says, and a wave of shame washes over me as he surveys my naked body. He pauses at my sex, a flicker of desire traveling across his expression while he licks his lower lip. “Very good, indeed.”
There’s an undeniable hint of sweetness attached to the terror that takes a hold of me now, giving me the strength to endure. I know that he’s trying to intimidate me. Savoring the view of my naked body is just another way of exerting power over me, his seemingly helpless victim.
“Will you be a good girl and behave if I untie your hands?” He asks now, studying me with a stern look.
I don’t respond.
“This is ginger tea, with lemon and lots of honey,” he adds, pointing at the tray next to him. “You should try it. Warms you up and invigorates the senses.”
Is he serious right now? He wants to talk about his stupid tea?
I continue to glare, my lips firmly pressed together.
“Well, you can’t drink it lying on your back like this,” he goes on, adding a shrug. “I’d have to untie your hands, so you can sit up and drink properly. But again, I can’t do that if you don’t promise to behave.”
He regards me with an expectant look, his eyebrows arched with anticipation. A moment passes, then another, and another, while tense silence stretches between us.
“So, I’m asking you again: Will you behave if I untie your hands?” He probes, sounding a little impatient now.
But still, I remain silent.
He pins me down with his piercing blue stare, unable to hide how much my silence annoys him. His eyes are narrow and his shoulders tense, while his left hand clenches around the sheets.
He’s about to lose his patience with me, which fills me with a sense of triumph.
“I will give you one more chance to answer me,” he goes on, speaking in a slow and deliberate manner, enunciating every syllable as if it pained him to speak. “Will. You. Be. A. Good. Girl?”
I don’t know why he’d expect me to answer this time. If anything, I’m even less inclined to speak than I was before. His growing irritation only reinforces my defiance.
“Do I really have to threaten you with punishment this early on?” He wants to know, speaking through gritted teeth.
We stare at each other, our eyes narrowed to slits, neither one of us willing to relinquish a shred of power. The silence between us is heavier now, charged with a threat that remains vague to me. Too vague to stir up the fear he wants to see in me.
But that changes when he finds a way to put an end to this eerie calm before the storm. It’s a quick move, one that I didn’t see coming—and I’m too weak to stop the jarring cry that flees my lips in response