Chapter 17
Agatha
The cuffs bite into my wrists from the weight of my body pulling against them, and my arms ache from holding them above my head.
His sinful mouth leaves my skin hot and flushed.
The bastard’s still close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, his shadow swallowing mine on the door.
He undoes one wrist; the metal clink sounding loud in the air between us.
My arm drops like lead at my side, the sudden rush of blood making my fingers tingle.
He steps even closer so our chests are touching.
His body is a wall in front of me, his masked face hovering above mine.
“Be good or we'll have to do much worse,” he says, low enough that I feel it more than hear it.
His breath grazes my ear. “Count to one hundred and then you can undo your ankles and leave.”
He’s distracted, his hand working at the other cuff. I slide my free hand down, fingers tracing the seam of his pocket. I expect him to catch me. I expect him to grab my wrist and twist it until I drop whatever I'm about to find. But his attention stays on the lock, and my hand slips inside.
No wallet. No keys. My fingertips close around something hard and cool. I pull it out slowly, my palm hiding the weight of it. A ring. Thick, masculine. I curl my hand into a fist and keep it there, praying he doesn’t notice the way my arm tightens or my breathing catches.
He doesn’t. He undoes my other wrist and steps back just enough for the air to move again.
My fingers itch to grab the knife on the counter and drive it into him, not to kill him but maybe just wound him a bit.
My whole body sings with the urge to turn and fight, but the weight of the ring in my palm changes everything.
The mystery of who the hell these men are outweighs the rush of payback. If I hurt him now, I lose my best clue.
I just came while watching someone get murdered.
My stomach turns, but my thighs are still warm, still slick.
Was it real? VelvetNoose. That is the name he called her.
I’ll never know if it’s fake or real, whether she really was VelvetNoose.
The truth is, I don’t know who most of them are beyond their handles and their wallets.
Any one of them could be a face behind a mask.
I start counting under my breath. One. Two. Three. At forty-eight, I feel my heartbeat slow. At seventy-five, my shoulders start to loosen. At ninety-eight, I'm already bending forward to undo the buckles on my ankles. The locks are simple, and they click open easily under my fingers.
I hook my fingers under the edge of the tape and rip it free. The adhesive burns across my skin, pulling at the corners of my mouth, but the first breath of cool air is worth it. My lips feel raw, sticky, but at least they’re mine again.
I step away from the door and look down at what’s left of my clothes. Shredded fabric. My bra, a limp carcass on the ground. My leggings are in tatters. Fucking asshole.
I pull my phone from my bag on the floor and order a dress, bra, and panties off Instacart. Nothing fancy, just something that will get me home without flashing the neighborhood. I set the delivery instructions to leave it at the door. Kira can't know someone broke into her shop because of me.
While I wait, I scoop up the ruined clothes and shove them deep into the trash can in the back.
I take down the restraint system from over the door, folding the straps in on themselves until they fit in my bag.
I'm not leaving that behind. That will be mine now.
I clean up the needles and packaging from my freshly pierced nipples, tossing the trash into the same bag with my clothes.
On the shelf behind the counter is the saline spray Kira used the last time when she pierced my kitty cat.
I grab it, spraying each nipple with a hiss between my teeth.
The sting radiates up my chest, but I'm more worried about infection.
That masked fucker had them in his mouth right after he stabbed me.
If I lose a nipple because of him, there will be hell to pay.
The knock at the front door makes my pulse jump.
I peek through the blinds. The driver has already set the bag on the sidewalk and is heading back to their car.
I slip to the door, open it fast, and grab the bag before anyone walking by gets a free show.
I drop the ring into the cup of my new bra, tucking it deep against my skin before pulling the dress over my head.
The cotton is cheap, thin enough that the outline of the barbell piercings is visible through the fabric, but I don’t care. It’s better than walking home naked.
I carry the trash out to the back, the alley swallowing me in the stink of dumpsters and damp brick.
The bag hits the bottom with a dull thud, burying the evidence where Kira will never see it.
Back inside, I scan the shop. Counters wiped.
No sign of the mess. No sign of me being here after hours at all.
By the time I lock up and step out into the night, my mind is already working. I'm going to figure out who these men are and what they want. I'm not a meek lamb waiting for the slaughter. I'm a piranha, and I bite.
The ring sits in the center of my desk, lit by the bluish glow of my laptop screen.
The band is etched with barbed wire, each twist sharp and precise, a skull sitting dead center like it's grinning. I’ve got it balanced on a folded towel so it doesn’t scratch the surface.
Not that I care about the desk; it’s the principle. Evidence belongs on a clean stage.
Up close, it’s heavier than I thought. The barbed wire isn’t just etched; it’s raised, jagged in a way that you can feel when you run your finger over it. The skull is perfect in its ugliness, the teeth worn smooth from touch. A man’s ring. Masculine. Worn often.
I snap a photo from three angles and upload it into a reverse image search.
The browser spins, thinking, before spitting out page after page of cheap knockoffs.
Halloween props. Costume jewelry. Gas station biker rings sold next to vape juice and scratch-offs.
None of them match the craftsmanship, the way this one feels like it was made for someone specific.
I narrow my search. Custom jewelers. Vintage dealers. Motorcycle club merch. The results shrink but get more interesting. Photos on obscure forums. Threads full of guys arguing about whether a particular skull casting came out of a shop in Arizona or a garage in rural Pennsylvania.
I click through one blurry image after another, scanning for the barbed wire detail. Twice I think I’ve found it, but the proportions are wrong.
The clock in the corner of my screen says it’s 9:17 a.m., but I haven’t slept since the shop. I’m not tired. I’m lit from the inside, my brain running hot.
I type in new keywords: “custom skull ring barbed wire band masculine.” A new set of results pops up. This time, the fourth image down stops me cold.
It’s close. Not identical—the skull’s mouth is open a fraction wider—but the wire detail is right. Same number of twists. Same uneven spacing. The caption under the photo reads: Commission by Dead Man’s Forge, 2018.
I click. The website is barebones. No contact form, just a phone number, an email, and a grainy shot of a bearded man in a leather apron hammering metal. Beneath that, a line that makes my skin prickle: Every piece has a story.
The number stares back at me from the Dead Man’s Forge website. A few clicks on my phone’s dial pad and it’s ringing.
It only takes two rings before a deep baritone fills my ear. “Yeah?”
I slip into a lighter tone, layering on fake sweetness. “Hi, I’m hoping I’ve got the right place. I, um… I saw this ring on a guy I was dating, and I just loved it. Thought maybe I could get one for myself, but… you know… more girly?” I even add a soft laugh, all shy and flirty.
There’s a pause. A heavy one. Then, “Sorry, sunshine. I’m out of the business. Used to run it with my sons, but they moved away. Too much for one man.”
I let my voice dip into a little pout. “Oh, that’s too bad.
Could I maybe send you a picture? Just to see if it’s one of yours?
Because if it is, I’d know my scumbag ex wasn’t lying.
He’s already lied about me being his only girl,” another small, fake giggle, “so I wouldn’t be surprised if he lied about this too. ”
A long sigh drags through the line. “Fine. Send it. This is the house phone. Let me get my cell.”
He rattles off a number. I fire off the photos, thumbs moving fast before I can overthink it. The silence stretches. I picture him scrolling, zooming in, weighing whether to tell me anything.
Finally, he speaks. “Yeah. That’s one of ours. But I can’t tell you to whom I sold it to. We never kept records like that. Most orders were word of mouth. Maybe a dozen through the internet before we closed shop.”
“Oh. Well, thanks anyway.”
“Sorry, girlie.”
I hang up and slam my phone face-down on the desk. “Fuck.”
A dead end.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ring like I can force it to spill secrets. My brain’s running every angle. What else could I do? Who else could I ask? But nothing feels solid until a thought slides in like a knife between my ribs.
Lure them to me.
The idea settles in slow, warm, and wrong, and I can’t decide if it’s brilliant or insane. Probably both.
I want to know who they are. What they want. Is this some weird superfan shit? Or is there something bigger? Something I can’t see yet?
And then the worse truth creeps in, the one I don’t want to look at too closely. I want more.
Shit. I can’t believe I just admitted that, to myself, no less. But they’ve hooked me. I can’t stop replaying the masks, the adrenaline, the way they pushed me higher than anyone else has. The way they each moved around me, like they’d been studying me for years.
They know my past, at least pieces of it. They still came. They know what I do and didn’t damn me for it. If that woman on the video really was VelvetNoose, they didn’t just ignore the insult… they answered it.
And me? I’m sitting here low-key obsessed with men who stalked me, who took my consent dubiously and rewrote the rules while I was still in the room. I didn’t tell them no. I didn’t tell them to stop. And I liked it. Every second of it.
I’m so fucked up.
Thanks, sperm and egg donor.