Chapter Eight
I’ve never chained anyone to the bed in the basement, and honestly, I thought the measure of installing such a thing was useless. As it turns out, Manny’s sick and twisted suggestion was worth it. Now, Emma can lie down, and I don’t have to wonder what she’s doing down there.
I shut and lock the basement door behind me, my cock straining against my jeans. I wanted to fucking devour her, and how easily she let me spread her legs was almost too tempting to ignore… But she’s chained to my bed. And I won’t defile her in that way.
Unless she begs me.
The thought of Emma begging causes me to nearly explode in my jeans. Her little whisper of please had almost been enough to convince me to let her go. I’ve never had a woman get under my skin so fucking fast.
But also… what the hell is wrong with her?
I rub the back of my neck as I head for the kitchen, intent on making her food. Is she just weak from twenty-four hours without eating? Is it the chloroform? I don’t like the way I’m worried.
I should have just killed her.
But the look in those eyes when I tightened my grip around her throat… It made me want to kill someone—but it wasn’t her. I dig through the fridge, not even sure what to make for the woman. I’m not a fucking bed-and-breakfast.
I glance at the time but know it’s irrelevant to her. For me, however, I’m down to thirty-five days to get rid of her. I drum my fingers on the stainless-steel handle, and then choose to make eggs and toast. Food is food, and she clearly needs it.
Not that it matters what she needs.
I dump the eggs into a pan and scramble them. As I wait for them to finish, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I dig it out, expecting to see Manny, but instead, it’s Henry. Why the fuck is he calling me right now?
“Yeah,” I answer, dropping a piece of wheat bread into the toaster. “What do you want?”
“Wow, what a greeting,” my old friend chuckles. “Jude said Manny’s on a rampage at The Den.”
I curl my lip in disgust. “Since when does straight edge Jude go to The Den?”
“Since when do you miss a party anywhere?”
“You know I never bother with that seedy side of the fucking place. No thanks. I might belong in hell, but I do have some boundaries.”
“Now that’s a surprise,” Henry laughs.
“What do you want?” I ask, careful not to sound like too much of a dick. We’ve always been friends, but ever since I helped him out of his own predicament last year, our relationship has morphed into something else. We’re closer.
“Lydia wants to have dinner.”
“Cool, go make dinner, Loverboy.”
“I mean, she wants to invite you.”
“Fuck,” I grumble. “Why?”
“Look, I don’t know,” he snaps. “She thinks you’re great because you helped save my life or whatever. Just go with it and come over.”
“When?”
“Friday?”
“Yeah, okay, whatever,” I say, shaking my head as I dump the eggs onto a plate. I grab the toast as it pops up and stick it there beside the heap. It doesn’t look all that appetizing, but it’s edible—and that knocks my brain again. “How often have you used chloroform?”
Henry’s silent for a few moments. “Uh, not much. The side effects aren’t worth it. It’s better to sedate using—”
“I don’t need a course on what sedatives to use. I need to know what chloroform can do to someone. I only used it until I could get to my sedatives,” I add for clarification.
“Oh…”
“Desperate measures.”
“I told you, you’re better off to carry lethal force.”
I shake my head. I had a gun, but I let it slide. “Side effects?”
“You typically see them quickly,” Henry explains with a sigh. “Mostly if you use too much, you kill them pretty quick. Convulsions, vomiting—all very obvious signs. Otherwise, it usually doesn’t do much. Maybe knock them out for a minute or two.”
“I fell somewhere in between. She had to have been knocked out for fifteen minutes, and she seems okay… But…”
“Wait,” Henry stops me, and I realize my mistake.
“One of your targets is still alive? What’re you doing with her?”
Shit.
“Following orders,” I lie. “You know every now and then we get a weird one.”
“Right,” Henry huffs. “I don’t wanna know.”
“Yeah, we can’t all just kill the villains,” I snap, running my fingers through my hair. “But then again, she might be a villain, so I don’t know.”
“Just don’t use chloroform again and you should be fine,” Henry says flatly. “But don’t bring this conversation to dinner on Friday.”
“What? You mean your little writer doesn’t like to talk about kidnapping unsuspecting women?” I throw the joke out there, but it makes me feel sick for some reason.
“Yeah, anyway,” Henry mutters into the phone. “Good luck. You sound a little shaken up.”
“I just don’t want a mess in my basement.”
“Vinita?”
I don’t confirm it. It’s the name of the safe house, which is where I am, but I don’t want him showing up here. I’ve made a fucking mess of this, and my sanity is slipping with the roller coaster Emma has me on. I want to devour her, but the urge to destroy her is waning, replaced with the curiosity to know her.
“I’ll see you on Friday,” I tell him, hanging up the phone. I’m usually the guy that has my shit together when it comes to work, and if Victor, my mentor and father, were here, he’d be sending me down with a knife, not a fucking plate of food.
Never get attached to your target. His voice rings out in my head as I head into the pantry, unlocking the door. I push it away, though I don’t know how to lie to myself at this point. I don’t have a fucking clue as to why I’m doing what I’m doing, but I have thirty-five days to figure it out.
I step into the basement, and peer across to the daybed. Emma has managed to get beneath the gray and black quilt, her back to me. It’s a dangerous position to sleep in, putting her in a vulnerable position for me to slip up behind her and…
Do nothing at all.
Irritation burns in my chest. I should just finish her, and I’m pissed I know that I won’t. I set the plate of foot on the nightstand beside her, unsure if she can reach it. I glance over to the bathroom, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out she can’t get to the bathroom if she’s chained to the bed.
Fuck.
What a dilemma. I chew the inside of my cheek, knowing the answer. I can let her roam free in the basement if I kill the breaker. But then, she’d have to live in darkness—other than the light from the stairwell.
I play with the idea for a moment. I guess it’d be a good test, see just how much it unnerves her. She stirs in the bed, and flips over to face me, whimpering as the chain grows tight.
And I feel something when her eyes flutter open.
I clear my throat. “Food.”
She sits up slowly, wincing as if she’s in pain. Her hair is messy, but if she wasn’t trapped in my basement, I might find the sight endearing. I pick up the plate and hand it to her.
“There’s no fork.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “It could be used as a weapon.”
She makes a face, picking through the food. Her apparent distrust or disgust—I can’t tell which—annoys me. I made her food. I don’t make anyone food, and she’s going to sit here and pick through it like it’s disgusting.
Privilege at its finest.
She might change her mind once she has to piss the bed because she can’t get to the bathroom. I clench my fists as I linger above her, watching her carefully pick up a piece of egg and put it in her mouth. Her eyes close and her shoulders drop, her expression morphing in a way that leaves me feeling guilty.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, looking up at me.
I can’t respond to her thanking me. In fact, it leaves me so fucking disturbed that I turn around and leave her there, cooling off in the stairwell. Why the hell would she tell me thanks just for meeting her basic needs? The woman knows I’m going to kill her.
Don’t show me fucking gratitude for it.