Chapter 4 Coco
FOUR
Coco
The Northshore: Across Lake Pontchartrain lies the Northshore, long used as a retreat from New Orleans’ noise and scrutiny. With its wooded land, scattered homes, and easy isolation, it has always been a place to step out of sight—and keep things contained.
I wake to a dull ache pulsing through my wrists.
It’s distant at first, like my body is still deciding whether it belongs to me, but then the weight settles in heavily. Wrong. My arms won’t lift. My legs won’t bend.
Every instinct tells me to move, and nothing listens.
My fingers tingle. They’re numb and burning at the same time. The sensation crawls up my forearms, sharp enough now to cut through the fog clogging my head.
I try to shift. Even that is too much because whatever has me tied up bites into my skin.
The memory returns in fragments I can’t quite hold onto yet. The sensation of hands. Shadows. Something pressed hard over my mouth. Then my eyes finally open.
The room is dim, lit only by a small night light plugged into the wall. It casts just enough glow to outline the ceiling above me and produce a dull gray over the room, but not enough to give me any clue as to where I am.
I don’t need to see more to understand what’s happening.
I’m restrained somewhere, by someone who doesn’t want me to leave.
My wrists are bound, my ankles secured, leather restraints drawn tight enough that movement is impossible. The mattress gives just enough to be uncomfortable, not enough to help.
I pull my right arm, testing the strength of the ties. Pain flares immediately and sharply where the leather cuts into my skin, racing up my arms and down my legs. My pulse jumps loud enough that it fills the room.
I pull again, harder this time, even though I know it won’t make a difference. Panic demands it, rising fast and merciless in my chest.
Nothing gives.
The bed doesn’t shift. The restraints don’t loosen. The only sound in the room is my own pulse, loud in my ears, and the rasp of my breathing as it turns shallow and uneven. Each inhale scrapes against my ribs, like my lungs have forgotten the rhythm they’re supposed to follow.
That’s when fear settles in for real.
It tightens slowly at first, then all at once, squeezing until the air is thin and unreliable. I draw breath too fast, too shallow, my nose filling with the scent of old wood, dust, and something faintly metallic that makes my stomach roll.
I force myself to stop pulling. Not because the panic eases, but because the pain is growing, and pulling isn’t doing anything to help.
Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. The restraints are precise.
There’s a dampness in the air, mixing with a chill that seeps into my bones. The coarse fabric of the bedspread beneath me is scratchy against my back through my shirt, making an already nightmare situation that much more uncomfortable.
This isn’t a dungeon. It’s more like a spare room that’s been stripped down to serve a purpose.
I try to lift my head, but the restraints will only allow me to lift it a few inches. All I can do is stare up at the plain ceiling. Its blank and oppressive canvas is dark gray and complete with cracks spidering out from one corner. The nightlight gives off enough light to at least make that out.
It’s silent. No street noise. No voices. Just a quiet that presses down on me, heavy enough to feel physical.
My eyes dart around the edges of my vision. The sheer curtains blur the view outside, but the shifting light tells me it’s dawn. Wherever I am, it’s far from the city.
Shadows cling to the corners of the room, pooling around dark, rough-hewn furniture. There is a wooden dresser, a single chair, both stark and cold against the gray walls. There’s nothing soft, nothing welcoming. Just hard edges and dim light.
The silence stretches on and amplifies the thudding of my pulse in my ears. It’s the only sound that fills the room with an eerie rhythm. I strain, listening for anything, any sign of movement, a whisper, the faintest footstep. But there’s nothing. I’m trapped in a vacuum, cut off from the world.
I try again, slower this time, to piece together how I got here. Past the hands. Past the dark. The last thing I clearly remember is leaving Indigo Blue after Delphine’s art installation, heading to my car, my mind already halfway home.
Beyond that, nothing. A blank.
“What the hell?” My voice is hoarse. The sound bounces off the walls and is swallowed up by the oppressive quiet.
I am suddenly and urgently aware that I need water. My throat is scratchy and my head throbs.
The panic is back, clawing its way up my spine and seeping into my chest. I try to shake it off, try to steady my breathing, but the helplessness gnaws at me.
Overwhelmed by how powerless I am, I suck in a shaky breath and force myself to think. Crying won’t help. Panic won’t help. Whatever this is, I’m going to need my head clear.
“Let me go!” I shout, my voice raw as it ricochets off the walls and comes back wrong, thinner, almost distorted.
The sound dies too quickly.
“Do you hear me?” I try again. “Let me go, you sick—”
Nothing.
The silence presses in heavily, unrelenting, and for the first time since I woke up, fear really gets its teeth into me. No footsteps. No voices. No response at all.
Has someone left me here to die?
My chest tightens despite my effort to stay calm, and this time I don’t fight the tears when they come. They slide down my temples and disappear into my hair as I stare up at the ceiling, restrained and alone, with no idea where I am or how long I’ve been here.
I don’t know how much time passes. Minutes blur into something longer, until my throat aches and my body feels heavy with exhaustion.
And then footsteps break the silence.
They’re slow and deliberate, unhurried, as the sound grows louder with each step. Whoever is coming isn’t trying to be quiet. They aren’t in a rush, either.
I force myself to calm, focusing on my breathing even as my heart slams against my ribs. The door opens.
Light spills in from the hall, cutting through the dimness as a figure steps into the room and brings the outside world with him.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, built like someone who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be taken seriously. He pauses just inside the doorway, saying nothing, giving nothing away as his gaze moves over me.
One of his hands is wrapped in white gauze, the fabric already shadowed where it’s bled through, like he forgot it was there.
There’s no hunger in his eyes or cruelty. Just assessment. Like I’m a problem he’s deciding how to solve.
I meet his stare head-on, refusing to let him see fear even as my pulse hammers.
“Untie me,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the burn in my throat.
He lifts a brow, faintly curious. “Untie you?”
“Yeah. You heard me.” I tug against the restraints, ignoring the sting at my wrists. “Unless you’re afraid of a little girl.”
Something like amusement flickers across his face before it disappears. He folds his arms, unhurried.
“I’ll untie you,” he says calmly. “If you can cooperate.”
“Cooperate?” I scoff. “You can go fuck yourself.”
He doesn’t react. He turns toward the door as if the decision has already been made.
“Suit yourself,” he says. “I’ll come back.”
“Wait—”
The door closes before I can finish.
I stare at the ceiling, fury buzzing under my skin. The nerve of him. The calm. The way he looked at me like this was all already decided.
My heart is still racing, but it’s anger fueling it now, not fear.
I force myself to breathe. Mouthing off isn’t helping. As much as I hate it, I know better than to keep slamming into a wall that won’t move.
I swallow and call out, loud as I can manage. “Hey. Come back.”
Silence.
Then, quieter. Controlled. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
The word tastes awful coming out of my mouth, but it’s all I have.
There’s a pause long enough that I think he’s ignoring me on purpose. Then the door opens.
He steps back inside, watching me with that same unreadable expression.
Whoever he is, he’s not panicked. Not sloppy. And that’s the part that scares me most.
Because men who take Laurent Boudreaux’s daughter by accident don’t look like this.
Which means he didn’t stumble into this.
He chose me.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up, dark ink visible along his forearms, the kind you are drawn to but don’t know why.
There’s a quiet strength in the way he moves, every shift of his body controlled, like he knows he doesn’t need to prove anything.
His eyes are intense, focused on me with a look that’s as disarming as it is frightening. They’re sharp, calculating, cutting through any facade I might put up.
But there’s something else there, something harder to place. There’s a kind of stillness that’s unsettling, as if nothing I do or say could shake him.
“Thought better of it, huh?” he says. His tone is even more patronizing than before. If my hands weren’t tied, I’d already be bleeding knuckles.
I swallow down the smart remark burning in my throat when I remember I am going to try a different tactic.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, keeping my voice even.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly weighing whether to trust me or not. Finally, he steps forward and begins undoing the restraints. I feel a surge of relief as the pressure on my ankles and wrists eases. As the circulation returns, painful tingling fills my arms and legs.
“Bathroom’s through that door,” he says, jerking his head toward a small adjoining door leading to what I can assume is an ensuite bathroom.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll step out. You get one minute.
“If you try anything, this gets a lot less comfortable.”
I glare back, fighting the instinct to snarl something at him. Instead, I nod curtly, holding my tongue as he backs out of the room. The door shuts firmly behind him, and for the first time, I can breathe.
I rub my wrists, trying to ease the red, angry marks caused by the belts.