Page 10 of Widow's Walk

He isn’t sure if I’ve swallowed them yet, so he continues cutting off my air supply, and I keep resisting. But my fight is withering, my body starting to fail.

Spots dance in my vision. My limbs feel like wet sand. My chest is too tight to rise. I’ve been choked out before, so I know what comes next. The heaviness. The slow sinking detachment.Like my body’s being dragged down while my mind scrambles to hold on.

Then—release.

He lets go of both my nose and mouth and I suck in air like breaking through the surface after nearly drowning. My chest lurches, the air burning as it’s forced down. I blink through the tears, vision warped and wet, barely able to make out his face. His insufferably handsome face.

He’s eerily calm as I cough hard, desperately wanting water but refusing to ask for it. “I’m going to kill you,” I rasp, sending me into another coughing fit. Which is really hard to do when someone’s big ass is practically sitting on your chest.

That earns me a dark chuckle. He opens his mouth to speak, and I hear his voice, but my mind is already muddled, and I’m feeling sluggish and dazed, so whatever is said doesn’t quite reach me. His voice is already far away.

Then nothing.

Chapter four

Sinclair

It’s been two dreary weeks of this tasteless mausoleum of a mansion.

After waking up that first morning, groggy, achy, and instantly peeved, I chose to play along. Temporarily, that is. Twenty-two years of captivity under my father’s roof had me craving change, even if it came wrapped in more steel bars.

At least I won’t have to pretend like I’m part of a family anymore. And there’s a whole new crew to torment.

But it was only going from one hellhole to another. Told when to eat, shit, and speak. The henchmen tail me at a “respectful” distance, pretending they’re subtle. And they’re just as easy to ditch. Fucking bullets for brains.

I don’t ditch them to escape. At least, not yet. I do it for the tiny thrill of it. That sliver of adrenaline as I watch the panic on their faces, frantically trying to locate me before someone finds out they failed their one and only job. To babysit the psycho. But that spark dies just as quickly as it flares.

The only thing keeping me from setting random fires just for the hell of it is studying this place. I roam the estate like a ghost with a vendetta, memorizing every hallway, every stairwell, every blind corner, and every damn nook and cranny.

This morning’s stroll in particular brings me to the office where Dario Golzar and his charming son, my darling fiancé, like to hole up when they’re actually here. Last time I tried to eavesdrop, one of their little rats manning the door snitched on me. They have yet to learn that this bitchdoesbite. But they’ll learn. Especially when I can no longer tolerate the boredom.Someonewill have to entertain me.

There are two mob pups on either side of the door. One is made of stone. Won’t even give me a small glance or a muscle twitch. So, I focus on the one with the shifty eyes. Like a snare, I have his eyes locked with mine as soon as they make contact. I sway my hips the closer I get, and it must be too much for him. He darts his eyes away and swallows hard. But he’s already shown me his weakness.

My arm brushes his as I press a finger to my lips with a quiet “shh.” He keeps his head turned, pretending not to see me, along with the garden gnome on the other side.

Good boys.

I lean in and press my ear to the seam of the door to listen in. Laughter filters through. Then an unfamiliar male’s voice speaks up. “You need to sleep with one eye open around that one.”

Could be vanity, but this conversation may be about little old me.

“I’m aware,” Blackwell replies dryly.

“Tell me. What’s she really like?” Silence. “I hear she’s fucking wild. Ties men up, tortures them, then fucks them senseless.” He pauses. “Some sinister shit.”

“That’s enough,” Blackwell snaps without raising his voice.

“I mean no disrespect, Blackwell. I’m just saying—”

I burst into the room and saunter in as if I were to be expected. “Don’t believe everything you hear in the girls’ locker room, boys,” I chirp with a cheeky smirk.

Blackwell’s expression is smooth, sitting behind his father’s desk, utterly unimpressed. The guest occupying a chair facing him is about mid-thirties and totally forgettable. His eyes balloon when he whips around and sees me.

“I’m sure you’ve been known to get a littleroughin bed.” Strutting through the room, I hop up, perching myself on the edge of the desk, and swing my heavy boots. “A man can gag a woman and bind her, and that’s kinky. But when a woman takes control, suddenly it’s sinister?”

He squirms in his seat, and Blackwell remains reticent behind me. He clears his throat to try and recover as he’s quickly crumbling under my stare like a sandcastle. “I’ve heard it’s a little more than rough play,” he mutters.

“Oh? Pray tell.” I cross my arms, grinning. “I do love a good story. Especially one about me.”

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