Page 13 of Covert Desires

Gripping the makeshift blade with all my might, I saw frantically at the zip tie. The plastic resists, mocking my efforts.

Soon, my hands become slick with blood, making each movement treacherous. But I persist, driven by a primal need for freedom.

When the tie finally snaps, I allow myself a moment of silent triumph.

With grim determination, I attack the fishing line next. It gives way easier, loosening my bonds bit by excruciating bit.

At last, I wriggle free from the chair's embrace, my tortoiseshell prison.

I collapse onto the floor, lungs heaving, heart thundering against my ribs. Blood marks my path like crimson breadcrumbs.

The whole process was way easier in my head.

When I imagined freeing myself with a broken shard, I didn’t factor in the bleeding hands that now leave scarlet prints wherever they land.

But freedom is freedom.

Phase one—complete.

Standing slowly, I flex life back into my legs. Pins and needles give way to deep aches, but sensation returns. I roll my shoulders, testing mobility.

It’s time to move.

I tuck the shard into my back pocket and head to the bed.

Nico is still sleeping, though the whiskey bottle has dropped to the floor, tarnishing the wood even further with its spilled contents.

This should be the part where I gather my essentials and get away as quickly as I can.

For a moment, I consider the option. It’s damn attractive.

But there is nowhere to run in this storm.

I sigh as I realize I have no choice but to deal with the passed-out asshole in my bed.

Moving swiftly but silently, I dig through my art supplies to fish out a roll of untouched duct tape. It’s nestled among the glues and palette knives—hidden in plain sight.

Of course, I have duct tape.

Who doesn’t?

But I wasn’t going to tell Nico that.

Considering the alternative he came up with, I almost wish I did.

I stalk toward the bed, each step measured against Nico's heavy breathing and the storm's relentless drumming. The silver duct tape gleams in my hands like liquid moonlight.

His right wrist first. The tape makes a soft hiss as I stretch it, binding flesh to carved wood. My makeshift porcelain blade proves useful, slicing through the tape with surgical precision.

Nico mumbles in his drunken sleep, stirring just enough to make my pulse spike.

Left wrist next. The tape barely touches his skin when those storm-blue eyes snap open. One heartbeat of confusion. Then—

"What the fuck?" He tears his arm free, fingers clawing for my face, trying to force their way into my mouth.

I jerk back, muscle memory taking over.

The porcelain shard finds its mark in his shoulder, sinking deep with a wet crunch.

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