Chapter 6 Coco
SIX
Coco
Marie Laveau’s Legacy: Known as the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, Marie Laveau’s influence remains strong, with visitors still leaving offerings at her tomb for blessings.
I try to fall back asleep, but my body refuses.
I don’t know how much rest I managed before he came back in and secured the restraints again. The discomfort is constant, a low burn that makes it impossible to settle. If this keeps up, sleep will never come.
The smaller man, the one I heard the other call Gabe, checked my arm ties about an hour ago. He tightened them with quick, efficient movements, muttering an apology as he worked. Something about not wanting to doze off and risk me slipping free.
As if that should make any of this easier to accept.
My hands are numb again, my fingers tingling where the circulation has been cut off. The rest of my body aches from being held in one position for too long. Every muscle craves rest I cannot give it.
My mind, on the other hand, will not slow down. It jumps from one question to the next, fear tangling with calculation, possibility stacking on top of possibility. There must be something I can do to get myself out of this situation.
I lie here staring into the dark, knowing there is no chance of sleep until I find some way to quiet it.
I hear the front door creak open, then click shut. Low voices follow, muffled and indistinct, travel up the hall and through the closed door from the other room. Baritones, controlled, careful.
I hold my breath and strain to catch a word, but it is useless. Whatever they are saying stays just out of reach, swallowed by the distance they had to travel to get to me.
The straps are tight enough to burn, digging into skin that is now raw and tender to the bone. The position forces my shoulders back against the mattress, tension radiating from my neck down my spine.
What eats at me isn’t the pain. It’s the waiting, the not knowing. I don’t know how long they plan to keep me here, or what they expect me to be useful for. I know this world well enough to recognize leverage when I see it. I just don’t yet know where I fit into the calculation.
I draw in a slow breath and replay what’s already failed.
Defiance got me nowhere. He shut it down without raising his voice, without hesitation.
Trying to be clever didn’t work either. The flirting, the bait. He saw through it and laughed like it wasn’t even close to a threat.
That tells me something.
Whoever’s in charge isn’t reckless. He isn’t cruel for the sake of it, either. The restraints are tight, deliberate. The rules are clear. Everything about this place is controlled.
That means someone believes they’re untouchable.
I don’t have weapons or allies, but I know how men like this think when they believe the situation is already decided.
My heart hammers as I listen for movement beyond the door. They’ve gone too far to let me wait this out. Time isn’t on my side.
The decision settles heavily and cold in my chest. Survival first, everything else later.
I flex my fingers, forcing blood back into my hands, ignoring the ache in my wrists. Whatever he wants, I’ll make sure he feels in charge but gets more than he wants.
A door slams somewhere in the house, sharp enough to fracture the quiet.
My body reacts before my mind does. My shoulders tense as I listen.
Footsteps move down the hall toward me, each one landing with enough weight to tighten the air in the room.
I must have drifted for a moment, because the awareness of someone stopping outside the door snaps me fully awake. My hands are numb.
I shift without thinking. Leather bites into my skin, the straps tightening instantly, a sharp reminder of exactly how little control I have over my body.
I test them anyway. One hard pull. Nothing. The bed doesn’t even shudder. Pain blooms through my shoulders as I strain once more, then stop.
He’s standing there.
The pause stretches deliberately enough to raise the hair along my arms. I picture someone just beyond the threshold, deciding what comes next.
I steady my breathing and wait. The house settles into silence, the kind that drags on without change. Nothing happens. No footsteps. No voices. No opening of the door.
The doorknob turns slowly, quietly enough that for a second I question whether it is real. Then there is a faint click. My pulse jumps in response. No one opens a door this carefully without a reason.
The door eases open just enough to let light spill into the room. A narrow strip cuts across my face, harsh after the darkness, forcing my eyes to react before I can turn away. I squeeze them shut and angle my head aside, but the damage is done.
The brightness leaves a dull ache behind my eyes.
The room settles back into sound, no longer deafening silence. The steady hum of the air system. A presence just beyond the door, close enough that I am aware of it even before anything moves.
I cannot see him, but the certainty that someone is there tightens my chest. My body locks except for my feet, where I roll my ankles to try to get blood flow back in my legs.
My pulse pounds in my ears, each beat wearing down my patience as much as increasing my fear. I swallow and force my breathing to steady. Panic will not help me, it never does.
The opening widens. A soft footfall follows as he shifts his weight and steps inside unhurriedly. More light floods the room, enough to bring clarity of the dresser and the window into focus.
My face remains turned away, but I know his attention is fixed on me.
I know this is the first man by the way he moves. The one who was here earlier, the one who handed me off without ceremony, like I’m a thing, not a person.
I turn to look at him to confirm my suspicion. It’s him.
Up close, there is nothing wild about him. His expression is controlled, his posture relaxed in a way that suggests confidence rather than cruelty. He rubs his beard slowly, like someone buying himself time.
“I wanted to see if you wanted me to untie you for the night,” he says quietly. “But I didn’t want to wake you. You’re awake.”
I am now, I think, but I don’t say it. There is no amusement in his voice, but no threat, either.
He steps inside, and the door shuts slightly behind him, muting the light until the room sinks back into soft gray. He doesn’t advance. He doesn’t posture. The control is already established, and he knows it.
I lower my gaze, offering him less than he wants. “That would help with sleeping.”
When I look at him again, I do it deliberately, just long enough to read what he hasn’t said out loud. His gaze stays on my face. Focused. Intent. It doesn’t wander, doesn’t linger where it shouldn’t. There is nothing soft in it, but there is something there all the same.
Interest.
He notices me, but he simply refuses to act on it.
That restraint tells me more than hunger ever could. If he were cruel, this would already be worse. If he were weak, it would already be over. Instead, he stands there, measured and unmoved, insisting—at least to himself—that I am nothing more than leverage.
Which means the rules still matter to him.
And rules can be bent.
“Can I trust you if I take them off?” he asks. His voice is smooth and even, the edge beneath it restrained, deliberate, as if he’s testing the shape of my answer rather than looking for reassurance.
I shift just enough to draw his attention. The restraints hold firm, forcing my shoulders back and pulling the fabric of my shirt tight across my chest. It’s a small movement. It does exactly what I intend it to do.
“Of course,” I say calmly. “It’s not like I can go anywhere.”
His attention lingers, not on the door or the windows, but on me. On the restraints. On the bed.
He isn’t measuring escape routes anymore.
He’s weighing what happens if he changes the rules.
I tested every weakness earlier today. He already knows that. The ties are precautionary now, not a necessity.
Something tightens through his neck. His breathing pauses, just long enough to notice, before he reins it back in.
His eyes return to my face, sharper now, as if he’s aware he revealed more than he meant to. Whatever crossed his expression disappears as quickly as it came.
That restraint tells me everything.
Whatever line he refuses to cross is still intact. Which means there’s room to press against it.
I sense it in the way his attention locks instead of drifting, in the subtle shift of his breathing when our eyes meet. He recognizes where this could go. He’s waiting to see whether I’ll take it there.
This isn’t desire. It’s opportunity.
The realization tightens low in my stomach, a precise mix of nerves and calculation. I don’t want him. I don’t trust him. But I understand leverage when I see it, and I understand men like him even better.
If I guide this, if I stay in control of it, this could be my way out.
I let my body relax back into the mattress instead of pulling away. When I look at him again, I soften my expression on purpose, lowering my voice until it sounds measured instead of desperate.
“Well,” I say quietly, “maybe you could help make this situation more tolerable in other ways, too.”
He doesn’t move right away. His intense stare sharpens, searching my face as if to confirm this is real and not panic talking.
“And what exactly are you suggesting?” he asks. The edge in his voice is still there, but the mockery is gone. So is any assumption.
Good.
I keep my expression neutral, careful not to rush this. I give him time to decide. Then I shrug as much as the restraints allow, letting my eyes travel over him in a way that makes my intent unmistakable.
“I think you already know,” I say evenly. “If this is how things are going to be, maybe we don’t have to make it worse.”
I hold his gaze and wait. This part only works if he chooses it too.
“And what exactly would you like to get out of this?”
“I’m not asking for freedom,” I say quietly. “Just… something that makes this easier to endure.”