Stolen Mafia Bride by Mae Doyle
Tess
There’s a pounding in my head that’s so painful I don’t even want to open my eyes. I remember feeling this way earlier today and not wanting to get out of bed. I did anyway, and things went south so quickly that I’m honestly not sure if I’m going to be able to recover or if the day is a lost cause. How did I get home from the alley, anyway? That was the last thing I remember.
Moaning, I move my hand to brush some hair out of my face. There are a few strands that, no matter how I sleep, always get stuck to my right cheek. It’s maddening, but I can take care of it.
Only, when I move my hand to brush my hair back, I can’t.
My arm must be asleep. I’m still groggy, halfway between awake and asleep, and that’s the only thing that makes sense to me. Instead of worrying about it, I simply move my other arm, trying to push the hair out of my face.
That arm doesn’t move, either.
Panic grips my chest. I had a night terror once before, when I was a lot younger and still living with foster families. I remember waking up and feeling like there was something heavy sitting in the middle of my chest. It was enough to make me sick.
I remember trying to scream, but I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs. No matter how deeply I tried to breathe in, I couldn’t get enough oxygen. All I could do was lie there in bed, my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
Sweat had poured down my skin, making me feel chilled in the cool night air. Whatever was sitting on my chest felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and like it was slowly pushing all of my energy out of my body. It honestly felt like I wasn’t ever going to survive.
Panic grips my heart now as I remember how terrified I had been. It had only happened once, but it was enough for me to know that I didn’t ever want to have another night terror or panic attack or whatever you wanted to call it. And now it seemed I was having another one after all.
“Help!” My voice rips through the silence of the bedroom and shocks me. Honestly, I hadn’t even realized that I was trying to call for help, and I sure as hell didn’t think that I’d actually be able to make a sound. My heart slams wildly in my chest and I writhe on the bed trying to shift the weight off me before I realize that there isn’t anything sitting on me and holding me down.
I’m tied down.
If I thought that I was panicked before, hell, that was nothing compared to this. Yanking on my arms, I feel the handcuffs (handcuffs?) tighten against my wrists. It hurts and I pant, twisting this way and that on the bed to try to get any slack so that I can slip out of them.
I know logically that they’re not getting tighter, but I feel more and more stuck in place the more I struggle in vain to free myself. My eyes burn and I blink hard before opening them again and twisting my head to look around the room. Surely there’s someone watching me, right? The thought of some asshole standing in the corner getting his jollies watching me struggle makes me sick.
But there’s nobody in here with me.
And clearly nobody heard me cry for help.
I try to curl my legs up for some protection, but I can’t move them either. They’re strapped in place as well, cold handcuffs like ice on my ankles. I’m spread-eagled on the bed and horrible thoughts fill my mind when I think about why in the world someone would want to have me like this.
They’re going to hurt me, I just know it. I have no idea who has me or what they want from me, but it’s clear that they’re going to hurt me. Maybe, oh God, rape me. Nobody ties someone up like this on a bed without some perverted ideas running through their mind.
Lifting my head, I peer down at my body. I’m still dressed, but it’s not like my running clothes offer a hell of a lot of coverage. Shifting uncomfortably, I turn and try to look around the room again. Before, I had only wanted to see if someone was in here with me. Now, I want to figure out where I am.
I might not be able to get out of the handcuffs right now, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to allow myself to stay strapped to this bed forever. I’ll manage a way out of here, no matter what the hell I have to do to escape.
Clamping my lips firmly shut together to keep from making a stupid fucking mistake and calling out for help again, I let my eyes drift around the room. At first glance, it looks like any other bedroom I’ve ever been in. It certainly doesn’t scream out that it’s used by some psycho kidnapper.
The bed I’m on is wrought iron, with an incredibly soft mattress that I know I’d enjoy if I wasn’t shackled to it, utterly helpless. One wall is made up entirely of floor to ceiling windows and I notice with horror the view is almost entirely woods. There aren’t any woods like that in town. I have no idea where the hell I am.
Directly across from me are two doors, one probably to a bathroom, the other to a closet. There’s also a door that I’m assuming leads out into the main hall and a small side table next to the bed that has a huge vase of flowers on it.
Swallowing hard, I close my eyes and try to piece it together. How the hell did I get here? That’s one thing that I don’t really want to think about, probably because I’m afraid to admit to myself just how fucked I really am, but there’s a small voice in the back of my head reminding me that I can’t hide from the truth forever. The alley—
And Marcelo Bonanno.
When I close my eyes and focus hard, I can remember now. He murdered the baker. He shot him at point blank range but got injured himself. And then I ran from him. And he chased me down that alley and pinned me to the ground when I tripped.
I shouldn’t have liked having his body pressed into mine from behind, but if I’m honest with myself there was a part of me that enjoyed it. He’s terrifying, all hard angles and evil oozing from his pores, but he’s also undeniably sexy and I haven’t been touched in a long damn time.
“You know that you’re fucked up in the head, right?” I mutter to myself, yanking on my wrists again. The pain that shoots up my arms is a good reminder that I’m not exactly here of my own free will and that Marcelo is not exactly an honorable man.
There’s no reason for him to have me tied up like this in his house unless I’m really and truly fucked. If he wanted to kill me for seeing him shoot the baker, then he would have already done that, right?
A voice in the hall cuts my ruminations short and I stare at the door, fear trickling down my spine. Do I pretend to be asleep? Do I let him know that I’m awake? I’m honestly not sure what the best thing is to do.
I don’t want him to think that I’m weak or he can take advantage of me, but I’m also afraid for him to walk in and see me looking him right in the eyes. He might interpret that as a challenge. There’s no way that that ends well.
I don’t have very long to decide. The door handle turns and I clamp my eyes shut, trying to slow my breathing. Would most people in my position be able to fall asleep? What the hell is he going to do to me?
I’m terrified. Even if I could run away from him right now, I don’t know if I’d be able to get my body to cooperate. I guess this is what a deer caught in the headlights of a car just waiting to get run over feels like.
It’s a terrible analogy, but I’m pretty sure right now that the outcome is going to be the same.