Page 9 of Twisted Vows

As I listen to the water bouncing off the tub, shower curtain, and his body, I take stock of my physical wellbeing so I don’t spiral into mania.

Other than my shoes, I’m still wearing all my clothes. Even my watch is still on my wrist. The back of my head throbs, and with the slightest tilt of my chin, I confirm I have a lump where I headbutted him. It should heal on its own, but an ibuprofen would work wonders.

I don’t expect him to offer me medicine. He just kidnapped me and tied me to the bed. I don’t think my comfort is high on his list of priorities.

The scrapes on my knees and elbows ooze, but they’ll scab over within the hour. My stomach churns with nausea and my neck is sore, but overall, I’m fine. No concussion. No lasting injuries. He didn’t molest me while I was unconscious, but from his actions, a comatose quickie isn’t what he’s after.

I shiver and bite down on the gag, ignoring the heat curling through my core as I recall his control. His words. His strength.

Damn my masochistic body.

I know there’s nothing wrong with me, but shame sours my soul. Maybe if my nervous system didn’t equate pain with pleasure, I wouldn’t attract such brutal men.

I banish the thought and mentally scrub away the lingering doubt. This is not my fault.

I search my cuffs with my fingers, but with the chain looped around the bar of the headboard and my ankles stretched toward the footboard, there isn’t much for me to explore. My bindings are too strong. The bed frame is too sturdy. I don’t have the strength or the leverage to break free.

The shower turns off. My heart leaps into my throat. I stop testing my restraints and listen as he exits the shower and dries himself off.

The rustling of a towel rubbing over flesh shouldn’t be erotic, but as my apprehension grows, so does the heat in my veins. My brain replays how easily he overpowered me.

I don’t want this, no matter how my body responds.

Silence permeates the room. Every cell in my body tightens with fear.

I flinch at the sudden noise when something heavy drops onto what must be the bathroom counter. He rifles through a container and sets a few items aside. I tighten my fists around the chains of my cuffs, uncaring when the metal digs into my wrists. I use the pain to center myself when panic rises. He must be preparing to torture me.

The fabric tied over my face shifts when I crease my brow in confusion. The familiar sound of medical tape being unraveled followed by the snipping of scissors leads me to believe he’s bandaging himself.

I recall biting his hand. He bled, but he wouldn’t need to use scissors or medical tape to cover his wound. A piece of gauze and an elastic bandage would be less bulky.

Several tense minutes later, he turns on the faucet for a few seconds before plunging me into silence again.

I jump when the bed dips under his weight, but he doesn’t crawl over me. Static crackles along my nerves as I sense him lean toward me. He wedges his fingers between my chin and the fabric tied around my face. I stiffen.

“Be still,mia caramellina. Wouldn’t want you to see my face and destroy your only chance of me letting you go, would we?”

He’s playing with me. I hate it.

The gag muffles my angry response.

He runs a warm, damp cloth over the base of my throat. I stiffen and bite back my fury as he cleans his dried blood from my neck, then I wait with bated breath as he works the fabric up to my nose. A sliver of hope curls through the unwanted lust thumping in my veins as he ghosts the rag over my gagged lips and jawline before pulling the material back into place. When he lifts the washcloth, I swallow, unsure how to respond.

I stiffen as he dips the folded cloth under the neckline of my hoodie, but he merely wipes the blood from my collarbone before disappearing.

The bed shifts again as he returns.

“Keep your eyes closed.Capisci?”

I swallow and nod. Even if he’s playing with me, I won’t willingly erase my chances of escape or get myself killed.

He cups the back of my head and lifts. I hiss in pain as lightning streaks through my skull.

To my surprise, he adjusts his grip to avoid the contusion, unravels the makeshift hood from my head, and wraps a strip of cloth around my eyes three times before tying it at the bridge of my nose, completely stealing my vision but avoiding the knot at the back of my head.

He gently sets my head down on the mattress and slips his hand out from underneath me.

A shudder wracks my spine as he brushes my hair back from my temples and trails a finger down the side of my face. When he traces the strap of the gag and teases my stretched lips, I struggle to breathe. My nipples pebble and my panties grow damp. I turn my face away from him.

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