Page 5 of Covert Desires

Before I can recover my footing, he’s on me.

The zip ties bite deep as he secures my wrists, but it's the fishing line that makes my blood run cold. Round and round, he goes, binding me to the chair with practiced efficiency.

Don’t panic, just breathe.

I’ve been in way worse situations than this, and I’ve always survived. I just need to remain calm and wait for the right opportunity.

But as Nico pulls the spool of fishing line from the grey box, I know things are about to get a whole lot more complicated.

This life is supposed to be in my past,damn-it.

I’m all about island vibes and self-healing now.

But the psycho with the fishing line doesn’t give a fuck about the lies I keep telling myself to justify why I’m wasting my prime away.

He wraps the sheer string around me, around and around, as he ties me to the chair like I’m some damsel in distress.

The line is unsurprisingly strong, and my skin bulges between the gaps. I try to move, but it only cuts the line deeper into my skin. From experience, I know there is no way to break through this—not with my hands alone, at least.

“Now stay,” Nico tells me as he returns to his search, rummaging through my stuff with both hands now, throwing my perfectly organized belongings on the floor like they don’t matter.

This man is deranged, I think for the umpteenth time as I watch him touching things—mythings—he shouldn’t be touching.

I try to wiggle my arms behind my back, but the zip ties have no give; they only cut into my wrists as I struggle to free myself. It’s no use.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, my voice strained. Perhaps I can talk my way out of this?

“Quiet. I’m trying to think.” Nico rubs his temples as he paces the small space with heavy steps.

“Please, I—” I start, but I never get to finish my sentence.

His backhanded slap cuts me off mid-sentence, my head snapping to the side. Instantly, a searing pain starts to blossom across my cheek. That’s going to bruise for sure.

Nico rubs his temples. “I said be quiet.”

Before I can protest, he grabs one of the nearby dishcloths, shoving it in my mouth like a makeshift gag and securing it with a second cloth around my head.

It tastes faintly like bleach and spilled tea, and I try to push it out, but I can’t. His knots are solid.

“Much better. Now I can focus,” Nico continues, speaking like I can respond. But he doesn’t seem to care (or mind) that the conversation is one-sided. I have a feeling a man like that doesn’t care about much.

He grabs a bottle of cheap whiskey from my liquor cabinet and pours it straight down his throat, not even flinching as he swallows down nearly a quarter of the bottle neat.

The alcohol seems to relax him a bit, and he puts the knife down on the counter—out of reach, sadly.

“Now…” is all he says. But he doesn’t have to narrate what he’s up to next; it’s clear as day.

Without so much as an inch of modesty, the psycho with the dead blue eyes starts stripping out of his wet clothes, dropping them right here in the kitchen.

I can’t help but stare as more of his muscular tattooed flesh is bared before me. He’s built like a Viking—young, strong, toned.

It’s unfortunate that such a dick of a man should be blessed with such an incredible body...

In another life, under different circumstances, he could’ve been my type. (At least for one night.)

When he turns around to face me, a gasp traps against the dishcloth in my mouth.

What the fuck?

---