Page 8 of Tied

My lips curve into a sinister smirk, but I don't deign to provide her with a verbal response. Not yet.

A soft mewl escapes her, speaking of her desperation when I retreat. I stop my caress and take a step backward to observe her.

She stands still, frozen, her shoulders still tense and her small chest heaving under deep, erratic breaths. I start to circle her, moving with slow, deliberate steps, so close that I can feel the warmth of her body, just like I'm sure she can feel mine.

She sways subtly as I move, her body moving away from me as I draw a close circle around her like a predator examining its prey.

Her hands are moving, fists closing and opening as they grab onto nothing but thin air. I pause for a moment, watching the motions while I notice a thin but visible layer of sweat covering her palms.

Poor little girl. Looks like she actually is afraid.

“Please?” she whispers now. “Please talk to me.”

I close in on her, leaning forward until my lips are right next to her. She holds her breath, instinctively swaying away from me as I loom over her from behind.

“Hello, Riley.”

My words are not much more than a hoarse whisper, and for a moment it’s unclear whether she even heard me underneath that linen bag because she doesn’t move or show any kind of reaction.

“Are you scared?” I want to know, raising my voice a little.

Her head moves under the linen bag.

“No,” she responds. “Well, maybe a little... Is that you, Mr. Stanford?”

“I’ll be the one asking the questions,” I reprimand her. “Don’t forget, this is still part of the interview process.”

“Is it, really?” she pokes, adding a helpless chuckle. “I mean... was this really necessary? I think those men bruised me pretty badly—”

“Bruised you?” I interject, a fire lighting in my chest. “They hurt you? Did they touch you?”

I try not to let the anger show in my voice, but fuck, if those guys laid a single finger on her...

“They didn’t beat me, or anything like that,” Riley clarifies. “But they were really rough with me. I mean, was it really nece—”

She stops mid-sentence when my hand flies up to her throat, grabbing the drawstring that’s closed around her neck to keep the bag in place. I pull on it, tightening the rope around her throat just enough to threaten her without actually choking her.

“I ask the questions,” I remind her. “I am in charge. You understand that, little Miss Riley?”

A gasp escapes her, but I don’t think it’s purely out of fear or shock.

It’s recognition.

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