Page 11 of Traps and Gretchen

“Stop it!” she half yelled, making her jump. “Youare his wife!”

“I don’t need money and there’s a hundred other women he could have and if I leave it’s not his fault, he’ll be free to be with—”

“Say it and I’ll go over there and smack you. I dare you.You. Are. His. Wife.Theend! Now, go get yourself cleaned up and get ready to do what we talked about. You hear me?”

She nodded, back to sucking in deep breaths and releasing them. “I’ll need a cold shower.”

“Whatever you gotta do, do it. And call me when this blows over. Itwillblow over and youwillsurvive it. Understand?”

More nods, more tears, more shaky breaths.

“Say it, I need to hear you say it. ‘I’ll survive’.”

“I’ll survive.”

“It’ll blow over.”

“It’ll blow over.”

“You’ll thank me.”

She nodded with eyes closed. “I’ll thank you.”

“Good now, go on then. Love you my lil’ sister. You gonna befine!”

Boiling tears flooded her eyes, and she hung up before letting out her fattest baby sob yet. Her little sister. Oh, how many times she’d longed to hear words like that spoken to her with such affection. The real her. Not one of her fakies.

She looked around, hurrying to the window again and peeking out, her guts in knots at the fear of seeing that beautiful giant stalking up the steps to come and fight with her. Ever since she’d submitted to the idea of being his wife and stupidly addedseductionto it, everything changed. Things opened. Her eyes, her mind, herbody!Her secret sexual cravings she only ever allowed out within the safety of fiction were running rampant, leaving her starved and desperate. And who was leading the charge? All hernobodyparts! And they weren’t evenassimilated, they were just flying around in the warzone she’d created, a chaos of irrational hungers scrambling to find the rightsomebodyto help make it right, but all the somebody’s were out of her reach.She was stuck inthe land where real people lived real lives with real purpose and she was fighting with a man who thought he had somethingrealto fight for!

God help her. If he hated her now, he’d want to murder her when he learned the truth about her. And yet somehow, that was the veryleastof her fears. The real terror was him. His voice. His eyes. His perfect angry mouth. His impossibly beautiful body. And now hisropes.

A brand-new tidal wave of panic hit her. He was going to do sexual things to her. He would see her naked! How did she prepare? She looked down at her dress. She wore matching black intimates. Was that… appropriate for such a time? Was this the message she wanted to give him? A woman with enough boldness to wearblack?Isn’t that what black meant? Bold? It wasn’t innocent like white or pink. But changing the message would… what would it do? Raise his suspicion even more. Maybe even prove it.

Stay the course. Don’t change. Wash your face. Submission. Remember the plan. You are his. You do whatever he says.Should she call him something particular? She’d mocked his beautiful real name and now hated herself for it. She loved his name. Neelo. She hated him for how much she loved it. She hated that she only knew that name because a pair of dice rolled in her favor. Dots on squares. That was her value. Her worth. And as accurate as it was, the truth had never hurt more. The only strength she’d had was her courage to live a pretend life. And now she didn’t want to live a pretend life, she wanted to live a real one but had no idea how.

The ring of the phone froze her. She stared at it on the counter, her feet stuck to the floor.

What if he was on his way to the house that second? Giving her a last warning?

She flew to the phone and pressed the button before looking to even see a name. “Hello?”

“I have a question, my librarian.”

Her stomach jolted at his deep voice. She swallowed. Wet her lips. “What?”

“In five minutes, I’ll be there. But I want you to tell me what you know about rope bondage.”

OhmyGod. She read several stories that involved various forms of BDSM. Not all had rope in them but those did. What was he wanting her to know about it? “I’ve read of it,” she forced out quietly. What was it called. “Shibari,” she remembered. “It means…”

“I won’t use Shibari,” he said, confusing her while his low tone scared her.

“Okay.” What other forms were there? And why wouldn’t he use Shibari?

“For you, I’ll use Kinbaku.”

Her brain raced, searching for the meaning. “That’s Japanese,” she realized.

“It is. It means to bind tightly. And when I use it, it will have very little to do with art and even less to do with the rope. Do you know what it has to do with? What it will mean to me?”

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