Page 32 of Locke

No, he wound up picking up the rope on his way out again, and let’s not go down that shit-fuckery of a memory. Standing in a home reno store at the 6am opening time, bloodied and sleepless, looking like he had freshly murdered a few people (which he had). The employees were fucking champs and smiled at him like this was all part of the fucking plan. And he—he fucking smiled back like, hello there, speak a word of this and you’re going to die. All the while knowing exactly how he was going to tie this defiant, nameless prey down: arms outstretched so her tits looked extra perky, her legs strained to show how long and soft they were.

His cock stirred something fierce as he imagined her terror mixed with excitement.

And then he shut my eyes, his self-loathing climbing up his throat in full force, ravaging his insides like a disease.

One of them.

He was becoming one of them.

Digging out his phone, he scrolled through his contacts, his fingers hovering over Jem’s name. His teeth clenched as he considered his response. To let Jem back in, to truly allow him such a pivotal place in his life after the despair he endured, after everything—

He scrolled past his name and called Izzy instead.

“Max Locke,” he gritted out when the line picked up.

Izzy’s response was immediate. “How soon do you need me?”

“Bleeding has slowed, but the wound is deep.”

“Where is it?”

“Abdomen.”

“Don’t touch it.”

“I haven’t.”

He hummed in acknowledgement. “Give me an hour.”

Eleven

Kali

My wrists were chafed, my body covered in blood and sweat. I’d cried myself to hysteria twice already, and now my horror was replaced with fury.

My throat hurt from screaming, and I was so thirsty, my mouth felt like sandpaper. I jerked around like an animal caught in a snare, twisting and thrashing about, but my ankles were tied down, too, and I wasn’t getting anywhere.

How long had it been since he bound me to his bed?

When I had awoken, none of my limbs felt sore. I felt like I had just missed him. The room

There was no sense of time in this room. It was so eerily quiet. He fed me that pill in the middle of the night, so I knew the darkness should have ebbed away by now. The sun should have been pouring in from somewhere, but it didn’t. Or was I wrong and just discombobulated?

My eyes adjusted to the dark eventually. I saw the outline of the gigantic four poster bed I was in, and the dressers against the wall. I saw the faint edges of the blacked-out panels over the windows responsible for blocking out the light.

Aside from that, the room was sterile.

There was a subtle scent of his cologne in the air. Nothing heavy, but it was there, reminding me how heady it was when he had been around me.

My arms were outstretched and felt sore. I longed to bend my knees, the feeling of claustrophobia growing every minute I was stuck like this.

I felt like I was in a state of perpetual anticipation. The growing anxiety sat like cement in my stomach. The seconds stretched, until I couldn’t be sure if I’d been in here a day or a handful of hours. It must be the drug, I surmised—it left me feeling loopy and confused.

Suddenly, a distant creak sounded, followed by multiple footsteps growing louder. I went still, waiting anxiously, unsure of what was to come.

One second.

Then two.

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