The ropes burned against her wrists as she fought—fuck, she fought hard. Every muscle in her body strained, shaking with that raw, primal panic that bubbled up from deep inside when survival mode kicked in. The binds dug deeper with every yank, every wild jerk of her arms, but it didn't stop her. Couldn't. Wouldn't. But it was useless.
The binds didn't give—wouldn't give. It was like wrestling with concrete wrapped in rope.
And then came the laughter.
Not the kind that fills a room with joy, but the kind that slithered into her ears and clawed at her bones—sharp, manic, hungry.
No, this shit was manic. The kind that crawled under your skin and made your spine twist like it wanted to run without you. The voice was warm again, syrupy and weirdly kind, but every note dripped with sick pleasure.
