Page 64 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

I text a simple confirmation to the number waiting for my signal. Three minutes later, they arrive—two campus security officers flanked by a police officer, their uniforms creating dark silhouettes against the yellow light of the hallway as they approach her door.

From my vantage point, I watch the drama unfold like a silent film. The knock. Her hesitation. The moment she opens the door, guitar still hanging from her shoulders like some useless shield.

She uses it as a weapon. Cute.

Even from here, I can read the shock in her body language, the way she stiffens, then tries to slam the door, only to have it forced open. They shut her up quickly with something they say, and then her hands are cuffed behind her back, the guitar removed and placed carefully on her bed.

Perfect. Right where I want her.

I watch as they escort her out, her head high despite everything, that familiar defiance evident even in the rigid line of her back as they lead her away. The silence settles back in as the chaos disappears out of view, leaving me with nothing but the faint sounds of my own heartbeat drumming in my chest.

I should leave and meet them right away. But instead, I just sit here for a moment, letting it play out, savoring the satisfaction that courses through me—bitter and sweet at once, like blood and honey mixing on my tongue.

If she won’t be mine, then she won’t have...anything.

The thought settles in my chest, heavy and permanent. I start the car, the engine purring to life beneath me. Time to go see my dove in her new cage.

Chapter 13

The metal cuffs bite into my wrists, each step forward sending a sharp jolt of pain up my arms. Campus security officers flank me on either side, their grip on my elbows unnecessarily tight as they guide me across the courtyard of my apartment building. The night air is cool against my heated skin, stars dotting the sky above us like distant, indifferent witnesses.

My eyes dart around frantically, searching for Thatcher. He has to be here somewhere, watching his handiwork unfold. The bastard couldn’t have orchestrated all this and not stayed to see the show. Every shadow, every parked car becomes suspect as we cross the parking lot toward a sleek black sedan that screams unmarked police vehicle.

“This is bullshit,” I spit out, my voice breaking despite my attempt to sound fierce. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Neither of the men respond, their faces set in careful masks of indifference as they continue marching me forward. The officeron my right tightens his grip until I wince, the message clear: shut up.

Ten more steps to the car, and still no sign of Thatcher. My heart hammers in my chest, a panicked rhythm that makes it hard to breathe. Where is he? Did he really just make the call and walk away? The thought makes the betrayal sting even more sharply.

“At least tell me what I’m being arrested for,” I try again, digging in my heels as we reach the car. The officer behind me sighs—a sound of irritation rather than sympathy—and reaches for the door handle.

That’s when I feel it—cold, hard metal pressing against the small of my back, unmistakable even through my sweatshirt.

A gun.

My blood turns to ice in my veins, and I freeze completely, fear crawling up my throat like bile.

“Not another word,” a voice whispers, close to my ear, unfamiliar and chilling. “Not a sound, or I pull the trigger. Understand?”

I manage a jerky nod, my lungs constricting with panic. This isn’t right. These aren’t cops. Cops don’t threaten to shoot you in the back in the middle of a campus parking lot. What the hell is happening?

“Good girl,” the voice says, and something dark is pulled over my head, blinding me completely. The fabric is thick and smells of something chemical, making my nose itch and my eyes water. “Now get in the car. Nice and easy.”

Hands shove me forward, and I stumble, unable to catch myself with my wrists bound behind me. I fall awkwardly onto a leather seat, pain shooting through my shoulder as it connects with something hard. The door slams shut beside me, and I hear the distinct click of a lock engaging.

My chest heaves as I struggle to catch my breath through the fabric of the blindfold. The car dips slightly as more people getin, doors shutting, engines starting. I strain my ears, desperate to catch any hint of Thatcher’s voice, any clue that he’s behind this, that this is just some fucked-up lesson he’s teaching me.

Nothing.

Just the steady hum of the engine as the car pulls away, taking me God knows where.

Where the hell is Thatcher? The question circles in my mind, a desperate mantra as the car turns and accelerates. Did he know they’d do this? Did he set me up? Was this his plan all along—not to turn me in to the police but to... what? What is this?

The silence in the car is oppressive, pressing in on me from all sides. No music playing, no conversation, not even the squawk of a police radio to confirm my suspicions. Just the steady thrum of tires on asphalt and the sound of my own ragged breathing echoing in my ears.

I try to track our movements, to make mental notes of the turns we take, but it’s futile. With no visual cues and my sense of direction scrambled by fear, everything blurs together. Left, right, straight for a long stretch, then more turns. Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, each second dragging painfully as I sit rigid with terror.

The gun is no longer pressed against my back, but its phantom pressure lingers, a silent threat keeping me compliant. My hands have gone numb from the cuffs, pins and needles crawling up my forearms. I flex my fingers, trying to keep the blood flowing, and wince as the metal edges bite deeper.

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