Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

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My lungs seize in my chest, and it feels like all my insides are going to melt into each other.

Somehow, my bones feel brittle, a sensation entirely novel to me, my legs suddenly too weak to bear the weight of my paralyzed body.

Ladies first.

I can't even roll my eyes at the pseudo-chivalrous remark like I normally would an obviously sarcastic statement, the bulging pair glued to the door as my feet are to the cold floor, unmoving. Unyielding.

My heart races in tandem with my mind, my brain spinning with a million questions at once, all surrounding a single, primary one:

What's behind the door?

I don't think I want to know. Scratch that. I'm positive I don't want to. But I'm not sure I have a choice in the matter, his seemingly casual words urging—no, telling—me to go in, and from the way he's looking at me, it's obvious that I'm going to find out whether I like it or not. And, if he has anything to do with it, it'll be much sooner than later.

Sooner being right now.

As if to confirm my silent prediction, he speaks again. "Don't make me repeat myself, Ramona," his voice unbelievably sinister and resonant in this new dark, much too quiet atmosphere.

I stiffen at the edge in his remarkable voice, pure ice lining my spine as my eyes flit back to the door, afraid to keep looking into his.

I gulp against the sudden tightness in my throat, shuddering as I struggle to inhale.

"It's your house," I croak weakly, still not looking at him. "After you."

I feel more than see him grin, and I nearly break in half when he leans in, his lips a whisper away from my ear. "I insist," he says quietly, the amusement in his voice obvious.

He's enjoying this.

Son of a bitch.

After much hesitation, I place one foot in front of the other, forcing my body forward in spite of the sheer reluctance I feel, blinking rapidly behind my glasses as my shaking feet move at a slug's pace. I swear I can hear my limbs creaking in resistance, begging me to stop. To turn around and go running in the other direction. And, by God, I want to.

I swallow hard, reaching for the rounded knob, pausing just before my fingers touch it. He notices my stalling, my uncertainty.

"It's open," I hear him say, his breath warm against my temple.

I hate how close he is, and I suck in a deep breath, leaning forward and turning the knob just to put some much-needed distance between us, no matter how small. The door opens quietly, I push it almost timidly, going as slowly as I can, stalling as much as possible.

But I can't bring myself to go inside.

My eyes slam shut for several seconds, and my heart picks up its pace, my chest rising and falling too fast as a tsunami of anxiety comes crashing down on me. When I can open my eyes again, I find a room that's dark, completely unilluminated save for some sparse moonlight that seems to be trickling in through the high ceiling. I can't see much from here, but I can make out enough to know that I'm not going to like what comes next.

But it doesn't matter. In a fraction of a second, I feel large hands on me, and before I can even react, Frost grips my upper arm, his long fingers digging into my skin, pushing me inside and practically dragging me toward the center of the room. I stumble as a shocked yelp falls from my lips, my feet trying to keep up with his long, severe strides and rough-handling.

He brings me to where the moonlight seems to be the most concentrated, stopping just underneath the quaint streams of silver light, and I soon realize their source is a dome-shaped skylight in the ceiling. But what grabs my attention is what's hanging from it: a long, sturdy rope attached to some sort of wide, circular device, suspended above the ground like a flat pendulum.

Utter confusion and fear spreads itself across my face. I stare at it warily, unsure of what to make of it.

I look down, my gaze settling on the vivid shadow it's casting in the moonlight, an identical match on the floor just below it. At least, that's what it looks like at first glance. But then a closer look makes me realize that it's not. There's an actual circle on the floor, the same size as the device above, completely aligned with it and...and...are those...numbers?

Oh, Jesus...

There are numbers inside it...just like a clock.

Before I can even process this contraption, I hear a familiar clinking of metal, and just as my eyes dart to the source of the ominous sound, Frost seizes both my hands, gripping my wrists in a single palm as his other hand pulls out those damn cuffs—that I thought he left downstairs—from his pocket. He holds them up, clicking each ring open and snapping them securely around my wrists one at a time, his eyes focused, fully engaged in what he's doing. The polished silver shines brilliantly in the dark, almost becoming a source of light itself as it reflects the moonlight around it.

He pulls me right under the strange, large circle, shuffling me around like I'm just another piece of furniture. I try to yank free of his sturdy grip but fail miserably, which only infuriates me. Survival instincts kick in and I fuss and jerk like a madwoman, fighting him even though my efforts are proving futile. He grins openly, seeming to enjoy seeing me like this, flustered and afraid and out of my element, acting purely on emotion. I meet his stupid smirk with the deepest scowl I can muster, hating myself for not being stronger, silently lamenting how unfair it is that he can restrain me so easily.

I continue to protest, both physically and verbally, but he doesn't care, effortlessly yanking my arms above my head.

"Owww! Damn it, that hurts—"

"I remember explicitly saying that, if you chose this punishment, there would be no negotiating, compromise, or complaints," he sneers, roughly pulling my arms higher above my head despite my angry, terrified squeaks. "Have you forgotten so soon, Ramona? Or would you like to end this right here and now and go the fuck home with nothing to show for it?"

His words are harsh, mirroring his actions...but they're also true. And I absolutely hate him for it.

My eyes flutter closed in a strange mix of fear and irritation, and against my will, I stop resisting him, my only consolation the hope that this crazy, surreal mess will be over much faster if I just give in and let him have his way.

He slides the cuff chain over a hook at the anterior edge of the device, securing my arms in the air. He steps back, and my eyes stay on him, bulging and probably bloodshot now, watching his every move in dreaded anticipation of what he's going to do next. In the distance lays some sort of lever, and he grabs it, keeping his eyes on me.

And then he pulls.

And he does it again. And again. And again.

Each time, the circular device I'm now hooked to rises, taking me along with it, and before I know it, I'm being hoisted all the way to my tip-toes. The motion freaks me the hell out, and my breaths stutter out of me, my legs twitching, trying to stay grounded and keep my quaking body balanced.

He pulls until only my big and second toes are touching the floor, but barely. I look to him in horror, and am met with another wicked smirk, his expression one of somebody who's pleased with himself...but is just getting warmed up.

My arms quickly start to ache from the tension they're being placed under, my back arching involuntarily to accommodate my latest position. Instinctively, I work at the cuff's chain, trying to slide it off the hook, but I just end up hurting my wrists in the process, the metal rings snug and fitted, scraping unpleasantly against my skin and bones. The chain doesn't budge. It's too small and doesn't have enough give.

Frost approaches me again, still towering over me despite the added height of being hoisted. He lowers himself in front of me, and in a rush of panic, I scoot back as far as I can, trying to scurry away from him even though the effort puts even more strain on my arms. But I can't even get that far, the metal binds restricting me, denying me any significant movement.

I feel his hands on the backs of my knees, dragging my legs forward, closer to him. I look down, my wide eyes landing on my feet as he spreads my legs, pulling them apart.

My face sets itself ablaze at the sight and sensation of his hands on my bare skin, and I can only watch in horror as he maneuvers limbs that are quickly turning to Jell-O.

Silently, he spreads my legs, making sure they stay inside the circle beneath us.

He places one foot on the number '7', giving my ankle a firm squeeze before moving to my other foot, as if he's silently telling me to keep it there. He does the same with my other leg, pulling it ahead of the other one and placing it on the number '11'.

And, suddenly, it all clicks.

Oh. Fuck. Me...

***

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