The binding forces my shoulders back and my chest forward. I’m standing blind and bound in my own bedroom, breasts bare, spine arched, and completely unable to cover a single inch of myself.
I am also soaking wet.
But Kir—sorry, the Masked Man—doesn’t touch me where I want. His gloved finger traces the rope instead, following its path from wrist to wrist, pressing into the gap where braided fiber meets skin. He checks the tension against the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse. Two fingers. Measuring. Adjusting.
Then, with no warning, he shoves me forward onto the bed. My cheek smashes into the sheets as I land facedown.
The Fear threatens. Once upon a time, facedown meant gone. Ceiling crack. Gray sock. Lights out, nobody home.
Now, it means here. Right here. I’m present in a way
