Page 150 of Triple Pucked
How long have I been unconscious?
Has that already happened?
It will kill Shay.
My brother will go fucking feral to get me back.
I clench my tied hands at the thought. I don’t understand how people can find enjoyment in being bound and losing control like Shay and Robyn can.
The sensation of this rope coiled around my wrists makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I hope that D’Angelo discourages either Shay or Robyn risking themselves for me.
I can get myself out of this situation. I can save all of us from these abusers.
I have done it before. I will always do it.
I’ll prove to my new family that I may not have the same money, talent, or status that they do. But I can still care for and protect them.
I can have worth.
A pretty young man with cornflower blue eyes and wavy honey blond hair is kneeling next to me on a linoleum floor. He avoids my gaze as he leans over to check my pulse with trembling fingers.
Heine.
Heine’s black skinny jeans and blue t-shirt are crumpled and stained like he has been wearing the same outfit for at least several days. He has a matching black eye to mine.
A heavy, ugly steel collar is padlocked around his neck. It has rubbed the skin around his neck raw.
I grit my teeth, holding up my bound hands. “Red.”
Heine’s gaze shoots to mine.
He looks startled.
Uncomfortable, he turns away, picking up a glass of water with a straw in it.
He passes the glass between his hands nervously. “Perhaps, what’s happening isn’t clear to you. This isn’t a scene. Blythe isn’t playing and even if she was, she doesn’t listen to safewords. I was stupid enough once to believe that was what I wanted. Needed. A lifestyle without limits. D’Angelo warned me against it, but I didn’t listen. Why the hell didn’t I? I think that I hurt myself after I was exiled to Germany because I couldn’t hurthim, or may because physical pain was nothing compared to how it felt to be rejected by him. Here…” He thrusts the straw to my lips. “Drink.”
I stubbornly keep my mouth shut.
He pushes the straw more insistently against my lips. “It’s not poisoned. Hands up, I admittedly have form there.”
When I still don’t drink, Heine sighs and places down the drink. “You’ll regret that. My Mistress doesn’t always let you eat or drink. How are you feeling?”
“Shit.”
“As long as you don’t die on me.”
I tilt my head. “So, you’re not a total psychopath.”
“I’m more a sociopath.” Heine sits back, slamming the glass onto the floor with a huff. “Plus, it would simply be too boring to have to dig a grave for you.”
I see beneath his bluster.
He doesn’t want to do this. He is as trapped as I am but he either can’t admit it to himself or is too broken.
The question is whether I care.
