Page 24 of The Tower

He presses his lips together and crosses his strong arms in front of his chest. "Something like that."

He offers his hand for support, but I refuse it. I can feel myself getting stronger with every single step I take on my own, and the sooner I regain my strength and health, the better.

There's only one bedroom upstairs, right next to the bathroom. It's just as simple and clean as the living room, equipped with only the most basic furniture: a king-size bed with white linen, dark wooden nightstands on each side, and a matching dresser pushed against the wall to my left. White curtains are closed in front of the windows to the right of the bed and along the wall at the foot of the bed.

The room has everything one needs but not a single item more than that.

"You'll sleep here," he announces, standing next to me after I enter the room. "Wearing these."

He holds up a pair of handcuffs, the same ones used to tie me to the compensatory hospital bed.

I shake my head. "No. Please. I don't want to be cuffed to the bed!"

He frowns at me. "That's not up for debate. It's for your own sa—"

"How is being tied down for my own safety?" I cut him off, relishing the fact that he takes a step back when I approach him, my chin raised defiantly.

"You might get some stupid ideas," he says, raising an eyebrow at me. "Run off in the middle of the night, jump out the window. I can't trust you to be reasonable."

I furrow my eyebrows as I look up at him. "Where would I even go in the middle of the night? As you said, I don't even know where we are."

He shakes his head. "You'll wear the cuffs, whether you like it or not."

"Where will you sleep?" I bark another question him.

"Downstairs. On the sofa."

I don't like that. I don't like any of this.

"So you say you can't trust me, but I'm supposed to trust you? What if you decide to run off tonight, leaving me all by myself up here, handcuffed to a bed in the middle of nowhere? Excuse me, but I've read enough Stephen King to know that's not a good idea!"

The look on his face is an amusing blend of confusion and anger. He may not know the book I'm referring to, but he knows I have a valid point, coming from my perspective. Even a professional killer like him must be capable of enough empathy to see where I'm coming from.

"What do you suggest then?" he asks.

I bite my lower lip as my eyes dart back and forth between him and the bed. It's a king size with two pillows on each side and one big blanket.

Enough room for two.

"Sleep up here with me," I say, avoiding his curious gaze while my cheeks once again glow with treacherous heat. "That way, you can keep an eye on me without having to cuff me to the bed. I'm sure I wouldn't be able to sneak out the room without you noticing. And I don't have to feel quite as extradited and at your mercy."

"Youareat my mercy," he points out. "And I'm not sure that's such a great idea."

"Why not?"

I turn to look up at him, feeling hurt as if he'd just rejected me. It's silly, but I can't help it.

"Because I can't guarantee your safety then, either," he replies, throwing me an ominous side glance.

I'm sure the blush on my face must have darkened a few shades. Is he really saying what I think he's saying? That he couldn't keep his hands off me?

Why does that make my heart flutter with such excitement? How can I even think of such things?

How can he?

"I'm badly wounded," I add for consideration. "Is that a turn on for you?"

His eyes flicker with a sinister promise, a fiery need sparking across his expression as he leans down to me. His lips are so close to my ears that I can feel the warmth of his breath when he whispers the words that make my core flutter with desire.

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