Page 12 of Eyes in the Shadows

“Roger that.”

I tap the bud again, cutting the line, and reach into the drawer.

“Someone you know was shot? Is that who you shot?” her question cuts off quickly as she sees the knife in my hand. A little noise of terror escapes her lips and she starts trying to back away. “P-please, don’t—”

I make a pit stop at my bag and grab the lengths of rope I always carry. As I sit back down on the coffee table, I lay the coils across my knee for easy access. “Lean forward.”

She sucks in air on a wet sob. “Please,” she whispers.

My heart jerks in my chest and I want to be able to tell her that she doesn’t need to be afraid of me. But I know I can’t. I need her to be a little afraid of me becauseI can’t leave yet and I can’t have her trying to escape. “You’re uncomfortable. Lean forward, I’m going to cut off the zip ties.”

Her teary eyes narrow in suspicion. There’s the sound of a double buzz, a text notification most likely, that I know isn’t from my always-on-silent phone. But it came from somewhere behind me, so I know she doesn’t have it, which means it’s not really a priority.

“The rope is softer; it won’t bite into your skin as much.”

As if the confirmation that I’m not just letting her go is enough to convince her to trust me, she does as I ask. She twists her torso to bring her arms around so I can easily reach her hands. The skin at her wrists is all red and I kick myself for cinching the ties so tight. I place my hand around her throat as I reach around her with the knife.

She goes rigid against me, but takes the threat for what it is, and doesn’t try to fight. My hand cools against her soft skin, feeling the fluttering pulse and labored breathing. Giving in to my baser urges, I give her a small squeeze that has her sucking in a breath before I release.

Her cheeks are pink when she turns back to face me and I lift a brow. Very interesting. Is it possible she’s feeling me right now, in spite of all that healthy, logical fear response? Now that gives me some hope. Maybe my frightened little temptress is a bit of a freak.

“You want to take off your coat so you’re not too hot?”

“I, ah—yeah… okay.”

I keep a careful eye on her as she shucks the sleeves down and lays the coat next to her on the couch.

“Hands in front.”

I tie her hands, then wrap another around her arms and chest, then I just have to sit back and admire it for a second. Because the way that rope looks on her is too fucking good. As she tests out the tightness, it shifts over her skin and digs into that soft, creamy flesh… I wasn’t just being nice when I offered to let her take off her coat. I can see down the v of her tee-shirt now, and those breasts are just begging to be let out. I haven’t done much rope play before, but I’m suddenly more interested in picking up the technique than ever.

Her next question is something of a surprise. Normally a hostage blurts out ‘are you going to kill me’ like they’ll believe the answer. It’s usually a little while before it occurs to them to ask questions about their captor instead of about their situation. Not Eleanor.

“Your name isn’t really Mac, is it?”

I wonder if she wants to know so she can give a name to the police or if she’s curious about me. “Yes, and no.”

She huffs out a breath. “I’m not really sure why I thought you’d answer that,” she admits aloud, her tone rueful.

I grin. “What else you got?”

“You don’t wear glasses, do you?”

I chuckle. No reason to pretend now, I tossed those useless things into my bag as soon as I was alone. They just get in the way of the scope. You can’t get through advanced sniper training without 20-20 vision. “Nope.”

There’s another loud double buzz from the other side of the room, and my eyes flick over to the purse lying on the floor that she’d lost in our struggle.

“Did you…” she trails off, then her eyes lock onto something behind me. Her tone shifts, becoming almost accusatory, “Did you eat my salmon?”

I spin a little, seeing the last container still sitting out on the counter. I’d decided around lunchtime that I was in deep enough at this point that it didn’t matter if I ate the last serving. I grin again, and then, because she’s getting a little too comfortable, lift the knife and stab downwards into the coffee table in a swift, powerful motion.

“Sure did. And it was delicious.”

She gasps, eyes wide as she stares at the handle, now sticking out at a sharp, upright angle from the wood. “I can’t believe you just did that,” she mumbles after she recovers from the shock.

“This table is falling apart—”

“The knife, not the table!” she cries, forgetting herself again. “You probably ruined the tip!”

---