Chapter 10 #4
But beneath all that, humming in my bones, is a heavy, liquid contentment. It is the feeling of being utterly spent, thoroughly used, and completely claimed. The frantic, screaming need that had clawed at me for weeks is finally quiet. For now.
Suha moves sluggishly, his own energy spent.
He removes the leather cuffs from my wrists, his fingers clumsy with fatigue.
But he doesn’t stop there. From a drawer in the heavy bedside table, he produces lengths of heavy, cold chain.
He locks thick metal cuffs around my wrists and ankles, the click of the locks sounding terribly final in the quiet room.
He attaches the chains to sturdy rings bolted into the bedframe, giving me just enough slack to turn onto my side but not nearly enough to sit up or swing my legs over the edge.
He is learning. The cage was too easy. This is better.
He does not say a word. He simply finishes his task, his movements slowing as the last of his rut-fueled adrenaline drains away.
Then he collapses onto the bed beside me, his body a solid, warm line of heat against my side.
Within seconds, his breathing deepens, evens out, and becomes the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep.
Just like that, he is gone, dead to the world.
I wait.
I lie perfectly still, listening to his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against my arm.
I count slowly in my head, giving him time to sink fully under.
The room is dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the gaps in the expensive blackout curtains.
It paints silver stripes across the rumpled silk sheets and over Suha’s sleeping form.
When I am sure he is truly out, I get to work.
The chains are a significant upgrade from the cage lock. These are proper locks, small but sturdy, the kind you would see on a bike or a storage locker. They require real finesse. A smile touches my sore lips. Good thing I have plenty of that.
Moving slowly, carefully, I twist my body, ignoring the symphony of protests from my muscles and the sharp complaint from my ass.
I examine the bedframe. It is old, solid, beautifully carved.
.. and in one spot, near the headboard, a tiny piece of decorative scrollwork is slightly loose.
I worry at it with my fingernails, wincing as I put pressure on my bruised wrists.
It takes patience, but eventually, with a soft snap, a slender sliver of wood comes free in my hand.
It is not ideal. It is too thick, too blunt. But I have worked with worse. I settle in, the chains clinking softly with my minute movements. I insert the wood sliver into the first lock on my left wrist, closing my eyes to better feel the tiny, internal mechanisms with the tip of my makeshift tool.
This part requires a kind of zen focus. I shut out the ache in my body, the sticky feeling of dried sweat and come on my skin, the heavy warmth of Suha beside me.
There is only the lock, the resistance of the pins, the faint feedback through the wood.
My world condenses to the space between my fingers and the cold metal at my wrist.
It is tedious, painful work. My shoulders scream from being held in an awkward position. My wrists burn where the metal cuffs have already chafed the skin. Every few minutes, I have to pause, let my hands rest, and listen to Suha’s breathing to ensure it hasn’t changed.
The first lock clicks open after what feels like an eternity. The sound is impossibly loud in the silent room. I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs. Suha does not stir. He merely sighs in his sleep, his arm shifting to drape more heavily across his own chest.
I let out a slow, controlled breath and move to the next lock.
One by one, they give way to me. The right wrist, the left ankle, the right ankle. Each click is a tiny victory. Each released chain feels like shedding a piece of a weight I had willingly put on.
Finally, the last lock opens. I am free.
I carefully, slowly, gather the chains in my hands to prevent them from rattling, and slip out from under Suha’s loose arm.
I stand beside the bed, and my legs immediately buckle.
I have to grab the bedside table to keep from falling, biting down hard on my lip to stop a pained groan.
Every step is a lesson in agony. My ass feels like it has been used as a punching bag, and my thighs tremble weakly.
I limp to the walk-in closet, moving as quietly as a ghost. I find another black button-up shirt, softer this time, and a pair of dark gray lounge pants.
They are both too long and too broad in the shoulders, but I roll the cuffs and cinch the drawstring tight.
I forgo shoes again; the idea of pulling anything onto my feet is too much to contemplate.
I pause at the bedroom door, listening. The mansion is silent. I crack the door open and peer into the darkened hallway. Empty.
My escape route is the same as last time. The window, the balcony, the trellis. Getting the window open silently is a challenge. Climbing out and onto the balcony makes fire shoot up my spine. Swinging my leg over the balcony railing is an exercise in pure willpower.
The climb down the trellis is the worst part.
Every grip of my hands sends pain lancing through my sore wrists.
Every foothold jars my entire body. I am sweating by the time my bare feet touch the cool grass of the garden below, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps that I try desperately to muffle.
I crouch in the shadows, waiting, watching the patrol patterns of the guards.
They are still complacent, still looking outward.
When the path is clear, I move, a limping, awkward dash across the open lawn.
Scaling the outer wall is a special kind of hell, requiring a burst of strength I barely have.
I haul myself over the top and drop down onto the other side, landing in a heap in the alley, a strangled cry finally escaping me as I impact the pavement.
For a long moment, I just lie there on the cool ground, panting, waiting for the stars to clear from my vision. Every part of me hurts. I am a collection of aches and stings and deep, throbbing pains.
I push myself up to my hands and knees, then slowly, agonizingly, to my feet. I take a step, and then another. My gait is wide, unsteady. A low, pained chuckle bubbles up in my throat.
Damn. Suha’s dick is a lethal weapon. I am going to be walking like I have spent a week on a horse for days.
But as I limp away from his mansion, melting into the labyrinth of backstreets that will lead me home, a slow, satisfied smirk spreads across my face. The pain is a good pain. The bruises are trophies. The exhaustion is the kind you earn.
He fucked me raw, chained me up, and thought that would be enough to keep me.
He has another thing coming.
The game is still on. And I am already looking forward to my next move.