Chapter 12 #3
My bare feet slap against the wet pavement. I can hear the heavy, booted footfalls of pursuit spilling out of the building behind me. They’re shouting to each other, their voices sharp and coordinated. Suha’s men. Naturally, he didn’t come alone.
I cut right, into a maze of backstreets I know like the lines on my own palms. I vault over a chain-link fence, the metal rattling loudly behind me.
I drop into a cramped courtyard, dash through an open gate, and zigzag through a line of overflowing recycling bins.
The sounds of pursuit grow fainter, more confused.
I allow myself a sliver of triumph, a wild grin stretching my split lip. I’m going to make it. Again.
I burst out onto a slightly wider street, still deserted at this hour. I can see the glowing sign of a convenience store two blocks down, a beacon of normalcy. I push my legs harder, my lungs burning. Almost there. I’ll lose myself in the fluorescent aisles, maybe even call Wooil for a pickup.
I’m so focused on the store’s light that I don’t see the car until it’s too late.
It glides out of a cross street silently, a sleek, dark shape that cuts off my path. I try to skid to a stop, but my momentum carries me forward. I throw my arms up instinctively as I collide with the passenger-side door.
The impact is a jarring, bone-deep shock.
The air is forced from my lungs in a silent gasp.
My shoulder and hip take the brunt of it, a bright flare of pain that whites out my vision for a second.
I bounce off the metal and crumple onto the pavement, the rough asphalt scraping the skin from my palms and knees.
My head spins, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears, drowning out everything else.
I blink, trying to clear the dark spots dancing in my eyes. My body feels like a puppet with its strings cut. I manage to push myself up onto my elbows, the world tilting dangerously.
The car door opens.
First, I see the expensive dress shoes, polished to a mirror shine, stepping onto the asphalt. Then the tailored trousers. My gaze travels up, slowly, dreading what I already know I’ll find.
Suha stands over me, looking perfectly composed. His suit is unrumpled, his hair still neatly in place. He isn’t even breathing hard. He looks down at me with an expression of cold, almost bored irritation, like I’m a minor inconvenience that has finally been dealt with.
He doesn’t say a word. He simply reaches down, his fingers tangling brutally in the hair at the crown of my head, and yanks.
A sharp cry is torn from my throat as my head is wrenched backward, my neck straining.
I try to bat his hand away, to scramble back, but my limbs won’t obey properly.
They feel heavy and disconnected, still buzzing from the crash.
My struggles are weak, uncoordinated things.
He holds me easily, his grip unyielding, and just stares down at me, his dark eyes utterly unreadable.
The carpet of the car is rough against my bare skin.
The vibrations from the engine travel up through my ribs, a low, constant hum that I feel more than hear.
My cheek is mashed against what feels like a rubber floor mat, the texture rough and smelling faintly of cleaner and old rubber. I can’t move. Not really.
My wrists are bound behind my back with what feels like rope, pulled so tight the fibers bite into my skin with every tiny shift of my body.
My ankles are tied together too, the same rough cord digging into the bones.
I test the bonds once, a sharp, frustrated pull that only makes the rope burn hotter against my skin. They don’t give. They’re professional.
A gag is stuffed in my mouth, a wad of cloth that tastes like starch and dust, so deep it presses against the back of my throat.
A strip of something, maybe more rope, is tied tightly behind my head, holding it in place.
My jaw aches from being forced open. Any sound I try to make comes out as a thick, muffled groan, swallowed by the cloth and the soft purr of the car’s engine.
I’m naked. Completely. They stripped my clothes off after I hit the car, when I was too dazed to fight back properly.
The cool air from the vents washes over me, raising goosebumps on my arms and legs.
I can feel the sticky, cooling mess of his cum between my thighs, a slick reminder of what just happened in that suite. It itches as it dries.
Then there’s the weight on my chest.
Suha’s shoe. An expensive, polished black leather loafer. It rests squarely in the center of my sternum, not crushing, but present. A firm, undeniable pressure. The sole is clean, barely worn. I can see the intricate stitching along the edge from my angle looking up.
I drag my eyes upward, my neck straining.
He’s sitting on the plush leather seat above me, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. He looks perfectly at ease. In one hand, held loosely between his fingers, is a cigarette. A thin line of smoke curls up toward the roof of the car.
He takes a long, slow drag, the end of the cigarette glowing a bright, angry orange in the dim interior light.
He holds the smoke for a moment, then exhales, a pale gray cloud drifting out from between his lips.
His dark eyes find mine over the haze. There’s no fury in them now.
No hot, rut-driven rage. This is colder and more settled.
A dark, smug satisfaction that sits in the curve of his mouth and the lazy tilt of his head.
He looks down at me like I’m a particularly interesting bug he’s pinned to a board.
The car takes a smooth turn, and my body slides slightly on the floor mat, my shoulder bumping against the base of the seat. The movement makes the ropes pull tighter. I grunt against the gag, the sound pathetic even to my own ears.
Suha’s smile widens, just a fraction. He taps the ash from his cigarette into a small, built-in ashtray in the door.
“Comfortable?” he asks. He doesn’t expect an answer. He knows I can’t give one.
I glare up at him. I put every ounce of venom I have into that look, hoping it translates past the gag and the helpless sprawl of my body. It probably just makes me look pissed off and stupid. The amusement in his eyes deepens, confirming it.
He takes another drag, watching me. The pressure of his shoe on my chest increases subtly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make me aware of the weight, of his control. It’s a reminder. A punctuation mark. You are here because I put you here. You will stay because I allow it.
The city lights slide by outside the tinted windows, streaks of gold and white blurring past. We’re moving away from the grimy neon of the fighting district, heading toward the cleaner, darker wealth of the hills where his mansion waits.
I’m so fucked.