Page 3 of Sinful Embers

No, it has to be him.

And he’s trapped me down here like a rabid dog on a leash.

A tremor rolls through me, ice and fire colliding in my veins.

My hands clench, my nails biting into my palms as rage swells in my chest, hot and blinding. He drugged me. Stripped me of my rings and tossed me in this cell like I’m some kind of traitor.

“That fucking bastard,” I whisper, my voice shaking with fury.

Radomir must’ve found out about my plans to leave him sometime after I fell asleep and then without so much as a thought, threw me in here.

I glare at the books but don’t touch them. My gut twists with instinctive revulsion that I don’t quite understand as they’re my books... still something about them feels wrong—dangerous—like traps baited with cheese to catch a rat.

I shake the feeling away and turn away from them. Right now, survival is my priority.

The chains drag noisily scraping against the floor as I pace, adrenaline surging through me, heightening my senses. Every detail of the cell feels like a piece of some twisted puzzle. My head snaps toward the door with its little rectangular glass peephole in it. I move toward it, but the chain tightens and yanks me to a stop a few feet past the table.

“What the fuck?”

I test the length of the chain, finding I can’t move anywhere near the door or the chairs lining the wall beside it. But I can get to the toilet and shower. Panic resurges making my head even more painful, so I decide to take the aspirin and gulp them down before I talk myself out of it.

I need a clear non-painful head to find a way out of this place. And Iwill,somehow get out of here.

I take a deep breath calming my nerves. Radomir must think he’s won. But he doesn’t know me—not really. He keeps underestimating me, and my father’s voice suddenly springs into my head:

Never let anyone see all of you, Leigh, keep parts of you to yourself. That way people will always underestimate you and won’t expect what’s coming.

As his voice fades away I suddenly find myself grateful for all the training my father put me through. He taught me to never give up even when I feel all hope might be lost—where there’s a will, there is always a way.

My eyes land on the chain around my ankle, and I tilt my head as I assess it more thoroughly. It’s heavy and polished to a cold gleam, its edges smooth but unyielding. The links are thick, industrial-grade steel, each one as thick as my thumb. There’s no rust, no sign of wear—this wasn’t thrown together on a whim.

I bend over and trace the cuff’s edge with my fingers, feeling its seamless surface. A faint line runs along one side, barely visible, but unmistakable. My stomach tightens as recognition floods through me.

I know this kind of cuff.

My father had shown me one year ago, sitting me down like he was teaching me how to ride a bike. But this was no father-daughter bonding moment. He’d laid out a series of restraints—zip ties, handcuffs, rope, even duct tape—and taught me how to escape them.

“A good con knows the tools of the trade,” he’d said, his tone oddly serious. “And a smart one knows how to beat them.”

One of the cuffs he’d shown me back then looked just like this one. Pressure-locked, he’d called it. No hinges, no screws—just a tight fit and a locking mechanism buried deep inside.

“This,” he’d said, holding it up like a trophy, “is the worst. You need special tools to crack it open, and those tools are never lying around when you need them.”

The memory of my father’s voice rises once again: “If you ever see one of these on you, Leigh, it means someone isn’t planning to let you go. Not easily, anyway.”His eyes had gone distant, and he’d muttered.“It usually means whoever put it on you, isn’t going to let you go alive.”

A shudder rattles through my bones at the thought of those last words and how that was one of the few times he’d looked at me with something resembling sincerity. His eyes had darkened, his mouth a grim line. At the time, I’d thought he was just being dramatic. But now, staring at this cuff, the weight of his words sinks in.

“Maybe, not fucking easily,” I whisper, my voice low and bitter. “But Iwill,do it.”

The chain scrapes against my ankle as I shift, the cuff biting into my skin. It’s snug but not tight enough to cut off circulation. Whoever put this on me knew what they were doing. They wanted me restrained, not injured. That realization sends a fresh wave of anger surging through me.

My jaw tightens as I scan the room with fresh eyes. Every detail feels calculated, designed to trap me both physically and mentally. The table, the books, the card—they’re all pieces of a sick game—one I have a feeling I’ve been in the middle of before.

But I won’t play by their rules.

I inhale deeply, trying to steady my pounding heart. My father’s voice echoes again, this time less grim and morepractical: “Every trap has a weakness, kid. You just have to find it. Keep your cool, and don’t let them know you’re looking.”

Keep my cool.

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