Page 131

Not sharp, but deep—a dull, all-consuming ache that pulses through every inch of my body. My limbs are heavy. My head throbs like I was hit by a truck. My mouth is dry. My skin, clammy.

I try to shift—but I can’t.

My wrists don’t move.

Panic spikes instantly, slicing through the fog of my mind. I blink through the blur, my vision adjusting in jerky frames. There’s a ceiling above me. Beige. A cheap fan spinning above, slow and lazy.

I look down.

Zip ties.

My wrists are zip-tied to the headboard.

My breath hitches and, for a moment, the room spins.

But then—thank God—my clothes are still on. Yoga pants. Hoodie. Damp from the shower, clinging to my skin.

Tears prick my eyes, but I force them down.Don’t panic. I scan the room.

It’s… familiar. The beige carpet. The tacky wall art. The awful smell of industrial cleaner and stale air freshener. And then it hits me—

This is one of Randy’s family’s hotels.

I’ve been in one of these before. They all have the same cheap furniture, the same soulless decor meant to feel expensive but built to be disposable.

I tug at the zip ties again—harder—but they just tighten around my wrists, biting deep into my skin. Sharp plastic slices the delicate flesh there, warm blood trickling down to my forearms.

I grit my teeth to keep from crying out.

Think, Laney. Think.

I hear water.

Then the door to the bathroom creaks open.

And I freeze.

Randy walks out, steam curling behind him. He’s wearing only a towel slung low around his hips, his dark blond hair wet, skin glistening with beads of water. He runs a hand through it, slow and casual, like he just stepped out of a spa.

And then he sees me.

His eyes land on mine.

And his mouth twists into a slow, twisted smile.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “Sleeping Beauty finally decided to wake up.”

My heart is a cannon in my chest. I go completely still, forcing my face into something unreadable even as terror claws at the inside of my throat.

His eyes scan me—lingering. Possessive.

But what makes my stomach turn is the calmness. The pleasure in his expression. Like he’s been waiting for this. Like it’s all part of some sick fantasy.

“You were out for a while,” he says, stepping closer. “I was starting to think I’d overdone it.”

I don’t speak. I won’t give him anything.

He sits on the edge of the bed, just out of reach, that smug smile still plastered across his face. “You don’t have to be scared. I didn’t touch you. Not yet.”