12. Nell
He’s trying to throw me off. That’s all this is. Caught red-handed and clawing for a scapegoat—classic deflection.
I try Darcy’s number again. This time, it goes straight to voicemail.
Shit.
It doesn’t make sense. None of it. She’s probably fine. Maybe her battery died? Maybe she’s just somewhere loud.
I down a glass of water like it’s going to flush the panic from my system, gripping the counter harder than I mean to.
“So, if you’re telling the truth,”
I say, peering into my room, voice tight.
“what exactly does this organisation do?”
The fear leaks through. I hear it in my own tone. But I try to hold the line. After all, I’ve got him tied to a chair in my bedroom. He can’t see me from this angle, but I’ve got eyes on him through the crack in the door.
He shifts, hair falling over his brow—dark, messy, unfairly handsome. His mouth’s pulled into a grimace, but I know the second I set him loose, he’d snap my neck without hesitation. Just another loose end to snip.
I’m pinned in a stalemate; let him go and risk him vanishing into the night, or keep him here and risk everything unravelling.
“You expect me to discuss this with you?”
he sneers, and the tone alone makes my spine lock up.
I step into view, arms crossed.
“Who’s the one tied to a chair, again?”
His jaw flexes. Just for a second. A flicker of realisation crossing his face—he’s the one at my mercy.
“For now,”
he mutters.
“But when they get their hands on you? You’ll be the one strapped down. And you won’t be smirking then, sweetheart. I can promise you that.”
“We’ll see about that,”
I mutter, trying to work out some clever answer into my brain.
What the hell am I going to do?
I need answers. That’s the number one priority. I need to know where Darcy is—now—and I need to figure out if he’s actually telling the truth, but, quite frankly, I don’t buy his bullshit for a second. But the silence on the other end of her phone… it’s not helping my optimism. She always picks up. And now?
Now, everything feels just a little too quiet.
But I can’t leave him here on his own… I really didn’t think this through.
I drag the other dining chair in close, knees brushing his, just enough to unsettle him. At least, I hope it does.
“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me where she is.”
He rolls his eyes and shifts in the chair, testing the ropes. I watch him strain—shoulders flexing, chest rising—but the knots hold. I made damn sure of that.
He exhales slowly, then leans forward as much as the bindings allow.
“Your friend? She’s gone. Long gone. You should probably get that through your head.”
His voice is calm, almost pitying. That makes it worse.
“Let me guess—you’ve never actually watched the kind of footage that leaks out of trafficking networks, have you? Never really seen what happens to people when they disappear?”
He cocks his head, tone darkening.
“Death would be a mercy. And your friend? She’s not getting mercy.”
My stomach turns.
He continues, voice low and deliberate.
“If I were you, I’d forget her. Pack whatever crap you’ve got, lace up your running shoes, and disappear before they connect the dots and come for you too. She lasted two weeks before they came for her. You might not have that long.”
How on earth did this turn from a kidnapping to me having to run for my life?
He’s just trying to scare me into letting him go. That’s all this is.
“Nice try stalker boy, you’re not getting away that easily.”
His eyes narrow, testing me, and the depth in which his eyes reach make me feel almost naked, stripped bare down to flesh and bone.
He’s not just searching my eyes, he’s searching my soul.
“It’s your funeral.”
I pluck Boomerang from his lap—again. This cat clearly doesn’t understand loyalty. He’s never liked men before, not even Adam, so why he’s suddenly snuggling up to the enemy is beyond me.
“Well,”
I say, pressing Boomerang against my chest.
“until you’re ready to talk, I suggest you get comfy. You’re not going anywhere.”
I push back from the chair and leave, slamming the bedroom door hard enough to make a point. The window’s locked—thankfully. Even if he did manage to Houdini his way out of those knots, there’s nowhere to go.
But now I’m stuck. I can’t risk leaving him alone, not with Darcy still off the radar. And I’m sure as hell not switching on his phone—whoever he works for is probably just waiting for that exact signal to swoop in.
Instead, I turn to his backpack. Rope. Zip ties. Duct tape. The classic kidnapping starter pack. And yet, he sits in there spewing lies like I haven’t just pulled a case file of damning evidence from his belongings.
So, what is it?
Is he completely unhinged, spinning a narrative so warped he’s convinced himself it’s real? Or—worse—is he telling the truth?
I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t started shouting yet. No yelling, no bargaining—just silence. And not the defeated kind either. The plotting kind. The kind that makes my skin crawl. He’s probably running through every possible way to kill me with a chair leg and a shoelace.
I scroll Darcy’s socials again, trawling through every platform, every half-forgotten handle. Nothing. No updates, no cryptic posts, not even a tagged photo. It’s like she’s vanished.
God.
Did I do this?
Did I just sign my best friend’s death sentence by kidnapping her stalker instead of calling the police like a functioning adult?
The longer I sit with it, the worse it gets. My thoughts spiral into a loop of scrambled, chaotic noise. I’ve tied a man up in my bedroom, Darcy’s missing, and I’m acting like I know what I’m doing. I don’t. Not even close.
“Hey, you,” he calls.
I bristle—at the sound, at the arrogance, and then I remember the fact he still doesn’t know my name, but I want to keep it that way.
I push the door open and lean against the frame, hip popped, arms folded. A performance of control I barely feel.
“Ready to talk?”
I throw out, confident I’ve crawled under his skin.
Boomerang slips past me like it’s choreographed, tail high, instantly reclaiming his lap. I swear this cat has it out for me.
“No,”
stalker boy says, deadpan.
“I need to take a piss.”
I scoff.
“Nice try. You really think I’m untying you? You don’t think I know exactly how that’ll end? The minute those ropes come off, I’m floor décor. Not happening.”
“You’d rather I piss all over your floor?”
“Ugh.”
I forgot about the human element of this. Of course he’ll need to use the facilities and shower, and do everything to stay alive. Hell, I’m probably going to have to hand feed him too.
I yank the mop bucket from my sorry excuse for a storage cupboard and toss it at his feet with a satisfying clatter.
“There. Use that.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“And how exactly do you expect me to unbutton anything?”
There it is—that glint in his eye. Amusement. The bastard’s enjoying this.
“Wait there,”
I mutter, already heading for the sink and digging out a pair of rubber gloves.
If he even thinks about trying to piss on me, I’m damn well not going in unprotected.
His eyebrows climb at the sight—bright yellow rubber gloves yanked up to my elbows like I’m about to perform surgery. I don’t get too close to his head. One wrong move and he could knock me out cold with a twitch of his neck.
Focus on the task at hand.
This is not how I imagined my next close encounter with a man. It’s been… a while. And now, here I am, wrestling with stiff black combat trousers while he’s tied to a chair and breathing steadily like we’re doing trust exercises.
The buttons won’t budge, the fabric is rigid. Everything’s awkward—tactile and claustrophobic. His breath grazes my skin in a way that’s measured and infuriatingly calm, like he’s daring me to flinch.
I haven’t been this close to a man since Adam. And somehow, this feels more intimate.
Worse still—I think he knows it.
“Anytime today would be nice,”
he jibes, shifting his hips in a way that erupts goosebumps over my skin.
“Hang on,”
I throw back, working my way down to the next layer of fabric. It feels like I’m invading his personal space, like somehow in all of this I have become the bad guy, but he doesn’t seem to care as I man handle his dick out of his boxers.
Jesus he’s big.
Even on the flop it’s impressive. But I refuse to offer him any flicker of emotion that would give me away.
Instead, I take his dick between forefinger and thumb, like he might transfer a disease if I hold it too tight, and position it over the bucket, turning away as soon as I have him aimed to offer him as much privacy as I can.
This is so weird.
He wasn’t lying—he’s got the stream of a thoroughbred. It just keeps going.
And it’s so awkward, trying not to look him in the eye, or at his dick while he relieves his bladder.
When he finally finishes, I crouch to shift the bucket, but not before tucking him away—restoring a shred of dignity, I suppose. Then I steel myself, trying not to gag as I pour the contents into the toilet.
That’s his bucket now. I’ll be buying a new mop. And gloves. Definitely gloves.
But when I step back into the room, the illusion cracks.
Dried blood clings to his hairline, the bruises blooming in purples and blacks like a warning, stirring the guilt deep in my gut.
It was a fantasy, hunting him—thrilling, wild and unreal. Living it is something else entirely. Now that it’s real, all I feel is dread. Consequences I never planned for. I can barely manage to keep my cat alive… and now this?
What the hell was I thinking.
Caving to the guilt gnawing at me, I retrieve the medical kit from the wardrobe and spread its contents across the desk, brushing away the ball of my blonde hair that has settled on the wood. The moment I move toward him, he flinches back—eyes sharp with accusation, though he says nothing. Just stares.
“Hold still. I need to clean this.”
What kind of an irresponsible kidnapper would I be if I left him like this?
The gash slicing into his hairline is foul—clotted and swollen, the skin around it blooming angry shades of red. My stomach pitches, but I steel myself and press the sterile wipe to it, scrubbing gently to clear the blood.
He grunts, jaw tightening, a hiss slipping between his teeth as I catch his hair by the roots to steady him.
Who knew a rolling pin could be so effective?