Page 78 of What About Love

“Maybe not a gag. From the reports I got from Mistress Daria, you’ve become quite the kink whore and might enjoy that a bit too much. And we wouldn’t want you to find any pleasure, now would we? She mentioned you weren’t too keen on the stroke of a lash, so I think we’ll start with that.” He patted her swelling cheek harshly. “Let me get my bag. I have a nice metal-tipped flogger you will hate.”

As he started to move by her, he paused then shifted back, ripping the front of her dress wide open. Brutishly, he twisted her nipples until she cried out in pain. “I’ll bring alligator clips for these babies. We’re gonna have some kinky fun, so don’t go anywhere.”

Perversely amused by his own cruelty, his laugh floated back to her, setting her nerves on edge as he disappeared in another room. Although her breasts throbbed painfully, she couldn’t focus on anything other than metal tips shredding her flesh to pieces.

Whatever had happened to Rossi, she couldn’t wait for a rescue that might never come. She’d have to save herself.

She tugged at the bindings on her wrists. He’d used a plastic zip tie, so her struggles only made the sharp edges cut into her skin. With ropes around her chest and ankles securing her to the chair, she was effectively immobilized, unable to move more than a fraction of an inch, but she tried anyway, desperate to break free.

As she thrashed about, the rickety chair teetered unsteadily on its back legs. Afraid she would fall, she shifted forward as much as she could. The old wood creaking loudly beneath her one hundred forty-pound frame gave her an idea.

Rocking backward again, she quickly threw her head forward, along with as much of her body weight as the ropes would allow. It was enough for her momentum to send her to her feet. Bent over with the chair attached to her back, she hopped to keep from taking a header onto the floor. When she stopped, she was by the half wall that divided the grungy living room from the even grungier kitchen. Without a second’s hesitation, she twisted sideways, slamming the brittle rear legs against the sheetrock partition with all her might. As she hoped, two of them snapped in half.

Silently praising heaven for termites or dry rot, she did it again, smashing the back and two remaining legs into the wall. This time, the rest of the chair splintered and broke, allowing her to stand upright. Shaking her body and stomping her feet sent the brittle bits of wood clattering to the floor. The ropes still encircled her body, but without the wood, they were loose and she had sufficient mobility to fight back.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Glancing up, she saw an incredulous Stapleton standing in the bedroom doorway, bare-chested and in black leather pants only partially zipped up. His pot belly kept her from seeing more of him than she wanted, thank goodness. He’d planned to full dom in his fucked-up fantasy, obviously.

Her gaze moved to his hands, assessing for weapons. He held a black duffel bag but no gun. Not wasting the opportunity or the element of surprise, she took her shot, possibly the only one she would get. Bending low and charging at full speed, or as fast as she could, with loose ropes encumbering her feet and her hands still bound behind her, she slammed into him with all her strength, driving her shoulder hard into his gut. He went down, landing on his back with a loud grunt as the impact pushed the air out of his lungs.

Somehow, Angie kept her feet.

While he was down, he wasn’t out and she couldn’t risk him making a quick recovery with her wrists still bound. Taking the advantage as T had drilled into her during training, she stomped on him, both heels and all her weight coming down hard in the center of his abdomen. He wheezed and curled inward, rolling to his side as his knees came up. His movement knocked her off-balance, and she staggered back. The wall that she banged into with a thud kept her from falling.

She kept her eyes locked on Stapleton. He was still moving, wheezing and howling in pain as he tried to crawl away. It wasn’t enough. He’d kidnapped four women, murdered them all most likely, as he’d planned to do to her next. Her goal became incapacitation with whatever means available.

Taking a moment, she untangled the ropes from her feet. Ignoring the scratching abrasive rope as it chafed her skin, she twisted and pulled until she was free. Then she raced across the room at him again. Rearing back, she kicked him hard, right over his kidney, following it with a brutal heel into his rib cage. She heard a crack and once again he yowled in agony. She didn’t care, doing it again, and for a third time in the same spot.

Whimpering, Stapleton curled into a ball, begging and pleading for her to stop.

“Stop?” Angie spat in disgust. “You mean like you did for Elaine Danson? You deserve exactly what you gave her,Dick. No mercy.”

She stepped back, trying to catch her breath as her eyes swept the room for the first time. Through the open door of his bedroom, she saw one entire wall plastered almost floor to ceiling with pictures, primarily of her back in San Antonio. Some shots in street clothes, at work, and a few more recent from her first two nights at the club here in LA. Mistress Daria’s work no doubt.

Scattered throughout were photos of his other victims, some from a distance—walking into work or the grocery store, getting in their car, etc.—while he’d stalked them and others, more graphic and disturbing, from when he had held them captive. She shuddered in revulsion as she looked at the other women who were guilty of nothing except resembling her enough to draw his attention.

Sick. Twisted. Fuck.

Dragging her eyes away from the demented shrine, she continued her survey, noting his service weapon on the nightstand and a variety of BDSM implements lying on the bed, which included some nasty-looking devices she’d never seen before and a pocket knife. Torn between the knife and the gun, she decided the latter was the biggest threat and raced to secure it.

But she had waited too long. Fingers encircle her ankle, the nails digging in cruelly. Ignoring the burning pain, she twisted and stretched, struggled until she could reach the Glock, just like the one she carried, with her bound hands. Turning back, she almost sobbed in frustration seeing he was still on the move, clinging to her while reaching for the knife on the bed.

“Don’t think I won’t shoot you, you bastard,” she said, taking aim. But her fingers were numb and wouldn’t cooperate.

Her threat didn’t stop him. In a move T would be proud of, she slammed her free foot into the side of his face, snapping his head around. He dropped to the floor, groaning, which gave her a small sense of satisfaction. But groaning meant breathing and breathing meant threat.

She jumped on him again. With her knee jutting out, she slammed into his back with the full force of her body weight. It knocked the air from his lungs and smashed him facedown into the filthy carpet.

Settling astride him, she shifted the gun in her pins and needles. She couldn’t get her finger on the trigger, but he didn’t know that. Leaning forward, she jammed the muzzle into his spine.

“Give me a reason to sever your spinal cord, Dick. How does a life sentence in a chair sound?”

The sound of splintering wood drowned out his whimpered pleas as the door exploded inward. Angie twisted, struggling to take aim at the new threat. When the gun was pulled from her grasp, she cried out sharply, resisting the arms that came around her and lifted her away.

“Easy, lass.” Kieran’s lyrical voice never sounded better. He held her against his chest as more men stormed the room. “I can see you have the situation well in hand, but how about letting us take it from here?”

Gentle hands cut the zip tie and eased it from her raw, inflamed wrists. The next instant, Kieran relinquished her to the arms of another as he turned and began barking orders. Strong arms scooped her up, and she heard an anguished groan against her ear.

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