Page 46 of Piggy
Charlotte
It’s been a week.
I always thought escaping a kidnapping would be easy. Pick the cuffs with a bobby pin. Sweet-talk the guard who brings food. Scream out a window until someone hears.
But there is no guard. Only Grayson.
And he doesn’t just feed me. He watches me eat.
The window? Boarded. The cuffs? Too thick. Nothing here bends. Nothing breaks. Except me, maybe.
He’s insane. I don’t usually swear, but after a week of being his captive, I call it what it is. Grayson is fucking batshit crazy.
But I have a plan.
He climbs into bed beside me, shirtless, chiseled, so warm. Just perfect. Of course, my body betrays me instantly, hips aching, breath catching.
Focus, Charlotte. Lust will keep me trapped. I need to escape back to reality: To Atticus, Wilbur, my freaking career !
I curl into him like I mean it. Stroke the ridges of his abs, light and slow. The chain around my wrist rattles like it’s calling his name.
He grabs the links, clenching them in his fist. He loves holding the chain. Even asleep, he never lets go.
“Grayson?” I whisper.
“Hm.”
“I’m really worried about Atticus.”
“Told you, he thinks you’re on vacation.”
“Why are you gone all day?”
“Looking for Riser.”
“Why? He’s not coming back. I’m fine.” I keep my voice soft. Sweet. The way he likes it.
His eyes snap open. “Are you thinking again?”
“No!” I squeak. Panic tightens my throat, but I smile through it. Stick to the plan. “Uh, Grayson… I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore.”
Silence.
“I was upset that day at the prison,” I add quickly. “Jealous. That’s all. I didn’t mean anything I said.”
“Go to sleep,” he grumbles.
I straddle him, legs trembling, hoping the boldness will work. The slightest smirk flashes, and his hands trail up my thighs, slow and sure, like he’s admiring something he owns.
“I love you, Rowen Grayson.” I don’t whisper it. I declare it. I mean it, too. I love this psycho. But love isn’t supposed to come with a lock and chain .
He only stares. No smile. No reaction.
He doesn’t believe me.
So I say what he wants to hear: “Let me prove it. Uncuff me. I won’t run. I just… want to be with you.”
My heart pounds as I wait. If he buys it, I have a chance.
He tilts his head like he’s studying prey.
“Piggy,” he murmurs. “I don’t care if you love me.” He slides a hand behind my neck, grips tight. “I already have you.”
My heart drops. I believe him.
I slump. A beat of silence. Then it hits. That hollow, sinking feeling in my chest.
Hopelessness.
But rage surges up next, bitter and sharp. This is not fair!
“You know what?” I snap, lifting my chin. “You’re lying, Grayson. You do care if I love you.”
The air changes, thick and suffocating. My heartbeat jumps, as if it knows I’m toying with danger.
His gaze darkens, jaw clenching tight. But I don’t stop. I can’t.
“That night, when you made love to me in this room, I felt it. I saw it. Every time I said I loved you, your body gave you away.”
He turns his face, like looking at me might destroy the mask he’s trying to hold in place.
I lean in. “What did you whisper when it was over?”
He shrugs, fake-casual. Too fake.
“There. Lying again,” I hiss. “You’re a coward.”
My own words stun me. My lips part like I want to take it back… but I don’t.
“A coward?” he repeats, voice deep and menacing.
His stare pins me in place, so wild, dangerous, and beautiful. But I nod. Because I mean it. And the dog collar remote is across the room. Not in his hand.
Just then, I’m yanked upward, his grip iron-tight. My arms stretch above my head. Cold metal clamps shut. I’m hooked to the wall. Standing. Vulnerable.
“Grayson!” I cry out, squirming.
“Sleep like that,” he growls.
“I can’t!” I sob. “Please!”
His eyes blaze as he mutters, more to himself than me. “Coward? Ungrateful little—”
“You’re punishing yourself,” I yip. But I purse my lips tight, unsure if I just said that. I did. Hell with it! “I know you want me in bed with you!”
He turns, eyes burning, causing me to freeze in fear. “What I want,” he says through gritted teeth, “is to hurt you. And I should. Because you’re—”
“What, Grayson?” I scream. “What am I!”
His breath catches. He wavers. Then, he spins and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
I’m left staring, heart thundering, shoulders burning.
What the actual hell just happened?
Talk about having too many emotions and not enough words. Not that he’d admit it .
I glance at my toes and—
Oh my gosh … on the floor, within reach, his pants.
My foot stretches, big toe curling into the belt loop. I grip the chain above my cuffs, and with all my strength, I raise my feet to my hands. I can only manage to lift my weight for a moment, just long enough to grab the pants.
Blindly, I dig through the pockets. My fingers brush paper, receipts…
Wallet.
Cards tumble out, smacking my forehead before scattering across the floor. I dig deeper.
Metal.
The key.
I hold it between two fingers like it’s holy. My hands shake as I guide it to the lock, careful, like a surgeon cutting into flesh.
Clink.
First cuff falls.
Click.
Second.
My wrists sting with freedom. Okay. I need to get out of here. Breathe. Move. Go.
I peek down the hall. Coast clear.
Tip toe, tip toe.
I glide through the house like a thief. Every step soft, silent, calculated .
The hall is dark, just slits of moonlight cutting through the boarded windows. I pass a small table, and something glints.
A bottle labeled chloroform and rag. Ropes, masks, a whole crime kit.
My heart lurches.
Memories. Bad ones. Grayson, my insane ex-boyfriend turned kidnapper.
I reach the front door… And freeze.
There he is. On the couch. Sleeping.
One arm slung over his head, chest rising slow, rhythmic, infuriatingly calm. I wish I could turn off my emotions that quick.
It’s good he’s asleep. I can walk. Run. Get the hell out.
But…
I look back at the bottle.
Maybe I want to prove to Grayson I wouldn’t escape if I were unchained. Maybe he has brainwashed me that badly. Or… I glance at the Chloroform bottle.
Or maybe I’ve got a little darkness too.
Before I know it, I’m right next to Grayson, wet rag in hand. My heart races. I don’t know how quick this works. The last thing I want to do is wake this beast.
Carefully, I lower the rag to his nose, hoping the fumes alone will weaken him before fully pressing it to his face.
Please don’t wake up. Please, please, please!
A beat.
Then I press it to his nose .
Nothing.
No flinch. Move fast, Charlotte. Move.
I snap on the cuffs, wrists and ankles, then scramble for the rope. I stop. I have no clue what I’m doing. I didn’t think this through. How do I...
Shoot!
The couch.
Yeah! Just tie him to the couch.
I work fast, threading the rope under the couch, heart hammering. His body’s so heavy, so big… and gosh, even unconscious, he’s unfairly hot.
I tug his wrists up, stretching his muscled arms high above his head, the rope pulling tight against the cut lines of his biceps and forearms. Veins snake down to his hands, his fingers twitching even in the fog of Chloroform.
I place the rag on his nose for a moment until they stop.
His chest rises slow, deep, broad and sculpted, with a faint sheen of sweat across his pecs that glints in the low light. Every hard ridge of his torso seems flexed with restrained power.
I grab his legs next, wrapping the rope around his ankles and yanking them toward the opposite end of the couch. His thighs are thick, solid, and I swear, the sight alone makes me burn.
I finish tying the last knot, breathless, fingers shaking.
He’s stretched now. Helpless. Perfect.
A wicked little thrill flares in my chest .
Rowen Grayson — dangerous, possessive, insane — is tied, gorgeous, and completely mine.
I did it. I caught him.
Yay!
A laugh bubbles up. I can’t help it. I nudge his leg with my toe and skip back. Giggling.
I wait on bated breath . Come on. Wake up.
His eyes flutter open.
He blinks. Focuses. Sees me.
I hold up my bare wrists with pride. “Surprise!”
He jerks to rise, fast.
Thunk!
The restraints catch. His arms yank harder, muscles bulging.
“What the fuck?” he snarls.
I grin like an idiot. Then clap before breaking into a dance.
“I got you, Grayson!”