7. Chapter 7
Ican feel my fingers twitching. The pins and needles sensation crawls up my arms like fire ants marching under my skin, sharp and uncomfortable but welcome because it means the paralytic is wearing off.
My legs are still mostly dead weight, heavy and unresponsive, but I can wiggle my toes inside my boots.
The henchmen don’t seem to care that I’m regaining mobility.
Two of them have me by the arms, half-carrying, half-dragging me through what I can only describe as a fucking palace.
My boots scrape against marble floors so polished I can see the distorted reflection of crystal chandeliers overhead.
The walls are lined with art that would probably make a museum curator drool—not that I’m an expert, but even I can tell the difference between prints and originals.
We pass through a foyer with a ceiling so high it makes me dizzy to look up at it, then up a staircase with an actual red carpet runner held in place by brass rods.
The banister is carved wood, dark and gleaming, probably mahogany or some other expensive shit.
I try to catalog everything, looking for exits, weak points, anything useful, but mostly I’m just stunned by the sheer wealth on display.
This is where Suha lives. This is the world he comes from.
The hallway on the second floor stretches in both directions, doors spaced evenly along both sides.
The henchmen drag me to one about halfway down and kick it open without ceremony.
The room inside makes my current apartment look like a cardboard box in an alley.
Hell, it makes every place I’ve ever lived look like a cardboard box.
There’s a bed the size of my entire bedroom, covered in what looks like actual silk sheets in deep burgundy.
The carpet under my dragging feet is so thick and plush I can feel it through my boots.
Floor-to-ceiling windows take up one entire wall, heavy curtains pulled back to show a view of manicured gardens that seem to stretch forever.
There’s a sitting area with a leather couch and armchairs, a desk with an actual lamp, artwork on the walls.
It’s a guest room. This is where Suha puts guests, and it’s nicer than anywhere I’ve ever slept.
The henchmen haul me to the bed and dump me onto it without gentleness.
I grunt as my shoulder hits the mattress, still unable to coordinate my limbs enough to catch myself.
The mattress is soft, expensive, probably memory foam or whatever rich people sleep on.
One of the henchmen produces heavy metal shackles from somewhere, the kind you’d see in a medieval dungeon, all thick iron and serious locks.
“Seriously?” I manage to slur out, my tongue still thick and clumsy in my mouth. “What am I, a vampire?”
They ignore me. Professional to the core, these guys.
One grabs my wrist and snaps a shackle around it, the metal cold against my skin.
There’s a chain attached that he feeds through a ring bolted to the headboard—when the fuck did that get installed?
—before grabbing my other wrist and repeating the process.
My arms are spread wide, pulled taut enough that I can’t bring my hands together.
The pins and needles are spreading, sensation returning in uncomfortable waves.
I can move my legs now, sort of, but it doesn’t matter because they’re shackling my ankles too, spreading my legs and chaining them to the footboard.
I test the restraints once I have enough strength back, pulling against them, but they’re solid.
The chains have maybe six inches of give, enough to shift position slightly but not enough to do anything useful.
I’m well and truly trapped.
The henchmen step back, surveying their work with blank expressions.
One of them pulls out a phone and makes a brief call too quiet for me to catch.
They exchange a few words, then both of them turn and walk out without a backward glance.
The door closes behind them with a soft click that sounds unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
I let my head fall back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.
There’s crown molding up there, intricate patterns that probably took some artisan weeks to install.
A chandelier hangs in the center, smaller than the ones downstairs but still dripping with crystals that catch the afternoon light.
“Fuck,” I say to the empty room. My voice is getting stronger, the paralytic fading. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
This is bad. This is really, really bad.
I knew Suha would be pissed when he figured out we were bonded, but I thought maybe he’d just rough me up a bit, scare me, tell me to fuck off and never come near him again.
I didn’t think he’d have me drugged and kidnapped and chained to a bed in his mansion like some kind of prisoner.
Although, to be fair, I did break into his hotel room, impersonate an omega, and trick him into bonding with me during his rut. When I lay it out like that, kidnapping seems like a pretty measured response, actually.
I pull against the shackles again, testing them. The metal bites into my wrists but doesn’t budge. The chains are thick, the locks solid, and the rings bolted to the bed frame look like they could hold a truck. I’m not getting out of these without a key.
The room is quiet except for the sound of my breathing and the faint rustle of wind against the windows. I can hear birds outside, singing in the gardens like this is a normal afternoon and I’m not chained to a bed waiting for a crime boss to come back and probably kill me.
I should be terrified. I should be panicking, trying to figure out how to escape, planning what to say when Suha shows up.
But instead, I find myself staring at the ceiling and thinking about how soft these sheets are, how comfortable this mattress is despite the circumstances.
When was the last time I slept somewhere this nice? Never, that’s when.
The door opens maybe twenty minutes later. I’ve been lying here staring at the chandelier, counting the crystals to keep my mind occupied, when I hear the soft click of the latch. My head jerks toward the sound, and my stomach does this unpleasant flip when I see who’s entering.
Suha looks exactly as unbothered as he did in the alley.
More so, actually. He’s changed into a fresh suit, this one charcoal gray with subtle pinstripes, tailored to his exact measurements, I’m sure.
His hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place.
There’s no sign that he just orchestrated a kidnapping in broad daylight, no hint of exertion or concern.
He could be walking into a business meeting.
Two guards flank him, the same brick walls from earlier. One of them is carrying my phone, which makes my chest tighten. The other has a laptop tucked under his arm.
Suha crosses the room with measured steps.
He settles into one of the leather armchairs positioned near the window, crossing one leg over the other with the kind of casual elegance that reeks of old money and good breeding.
He holds out his hand without looking, and the guard places my phone in it like they’ve done this dance a thousand times.
I watch, trying to keep my expression neutral, as Suha examines my phone. He turns it over in his hands, studying it with vague interest. Then he nods at the guard with the laptop.
This guy is different from the muscle. Slender, wearing glasses, dressed in a button-down shirt and slacks that make him look more accountant than enforcer.
He sits down at the desk, opens the laptop, and his fingers start flying over the keys with the kind of speed that makes me think of Wooil hunched over his computer in the back room of the pawn shop.
It takes him maybe three minutes to bypass my password. Three fucking minutes. I watch the screen from my position on the bed, helpless, as my phone unlocks and displays my home screen.
Suha starts scrolling. His face remains completely neutral, that same blank mask of polite disinterest. He swipes through my apps, taps on my photos, opens my messages. I can see the screen from here, and my stomach sinks lower with each passing second.
Then he stops. His thumb pauses mid-scroll, and something shifts in his expression. Not much, just a slight narrowing of his eyes. He holds up the phone, angling it so I can see the screen clearly.
It’s the photo of the license plate. The one I took in that alley weeks ago, of his car.
“Interesting,” Suha says. His voice is calm, conversational. He continues scrolling, and I can see him opening my text messages with Wooil.
He starts reading aloud. “‘Central Plaza, penthouse suite, checked in under the shell company.’“ He scrolls further. “‘He’s there tonight, confirmed.’“ Another scroll. “‘Good luck, you absolute lunatic.’“
I close my eyes briefly. Fuck. Wooil’s going to kill me if I survive this.
Suha switches to my notes app and I watch with growing dread as he finds the file I created.
The one where I documented everything about him.
His business addresses, his schedule, his known associates, the times he left his office, the routes he took, the clubs he visited.
Weeks of stalking laid out in meticulous detail.
He reads through it silently, scrolling with his thumb, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
His face gives away nothing. Finally, he sets the phone down on the arm of the chair and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a cigarette case.
Silver, engraved with something I can’t make out from this distance.
One of the guards immediately steps forward with a lighter. Suha doesn’t even look at him, just leans in slightly as the flame appears. He takes a long drag, exhales smoke toward the ceiling, and then his eyes lock onto mine.
“So,” he says, his tone still utterly calm. “How long have you been stalking me?”