Page 39 of Fixation
By a material that feels a lot like foam and Velcro.
Like hospital restraints. In this place, that isn’t a hospital at all.
What the fuck.
What.
The.
Fuck.
I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here right this fucking minute.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper. I twist my arm left and right. I push and I tug and—“Dammit. Dammit.”
My voice is hoarse. My muscles are tired from fighting the fever.
I kick as hard as I can, only to realize I’m just as fucked. Just as tightly bound.
The IV cannula hurts my arm when I wriggle, trying to free myself.
Tears brim in the corners of my eyes as frustration takes over.
Nevertheless, I don’t stop trying.
I don’t do helpless.
Despite my connections to the industry, I didn’t coast here. I work hard. I’m a fighter.
No one’s going to hold me captive.
The fact that my stalker must be the surgeon from the hospital changes nothing. He can be the most beautiful person I’ve ever come across. He can be the man who caught me when I fell.
He still kidnapped me.
He’s dangerous.
“Argh,” I growl quietly, yanking on my binds over and over and over again.
The IV pole sways. The rails rattle. The bed shakes but otherwise doesn’t slide off to the side.
Terror threatens to swallow my whole when I realize it’s bolted to the floor.
My body rebels against the sharp, strenuous movements. Against any movement I make, period.
Despair clings to my lungs. My throat tightens.
Fighting my predicament wears me down with every passing second.
I’ve been beaten to a pulp by the fever.
The damned cannula, will that ever stop hurting? You know what? Don’t care. Let it hurt. Let it pull on my skin.
I have to power through. Gotta get out of here.
The rails keep clinking. My heart hammers in my chest.
Sweat trickles down my temples.
