Gabriella
The cuffs weren't cruel. They were padded. Soft leather on the inside. The metal ring in the headboard was solid but not sharp. I could hang there for hours without permanent damage. He'd made sure of that. Calculated. Thoughtful, in the sickest way.
Time stretched.
First hour: anger. Pure, hot, red. I yanked once—hard—testing the give. The headboard didn't budge. The cuffs bit into my wrists just enough to remind me they were there. I cursed him under my breath. Called him every name I could think of. Imagined clawing his eyes out. Then I stopped because the anger made my pulse race and my arms ache faster.
Second hour: boredom. The room was quiet except for the faint tick of the clock on the dresser. I counted the seconds between ticks until I lost the rhythm. Stared at the ceiling. Counted the beams. Fourteen. Then the knots in the wood. Then the tiny cracks in the paint near the window.
Third hour: memory. Unwanted. The way he'd looked at me last night when I screamed his name—not triumphant, not cruel, but something rawer. Like he was surprised I could give that much. Like maybe he hadn't expected me to meet him halfway. I hated that I noticed. Hated that part of me wanted to see it again.
Fourth hour: body. The position pulled at my shoulders. My back arched just enough that my breasts lifted every time I breathed. Nipples hard from the cool air. Thighs pressed together trying to ease the ache he'd left there. I shifted. The movement rubbed the silk sheets against sensitive skin. A small, traitorous spark. I clenched my jaw. Refused to give in. But the spark stayed. Low. Insistent.
Fifth hour: doubt. What if the bet ended tomorrow? What if he won and I really did start believing the lies he fed me? What if I woke up one day and the hate had turned soft around the edges? What if I looked in the mirror and saw a woman who stayed because she wanted to?
I closed my eyes. Shook my head hard. No. Not yet. Not ever.
Sixth hour: planning.
I couldn't reach the cuffs with my teeth. Couldn't kick the headboard loose. Couldn't scream loud enough for anyone outside the pack to hear. But I could wait. I could watch. I could learn.
He'd left the drawer open—the one he'd pulled the cuffs from. Just a crack. Inside: more leather. Rope. A small silver key on a black cord. The key for the anklet? Maybe. Or something else. I memorized its shape. The way the light caught the teeth.
He'd also left his watch on the nightstand. Black face. Thick band. The one linked to the anklet. It sat there like bait.
If I could get free—even for a minute—I could smash it. Or hide it. Or use it to send a false signal. Something. Anything.
The door opened.
Aiden.
Shirt untucked now. Hair messy like he'd run his hands through it. Eyes tired but sharp.
He stopped in the doorway. Looked at me.
Hung there. Naked. Marked. Unbroken.
Something flickered across his face. Not lust. Not anger.
Pride?
He closed the door. Locked it again.
Walked to the bed slow.
Stood over me.
"You didn't cry," he said quietly.
"No."
"You didn't beg."
"No."
He reached up. Unclipped one cuff. Then the other. My arms dropped like dead weight. I gasped as blood rushed back. Pins and needles. He caught me before I fell. Lowered me to the mattress. Gentle. Too gentle.
I didn't fight. Just let him lay me down.
He rubbed my wrists. Slow circles with his thumbs. Working the stiffness out.
"Why?" I asked. Voice hoarse from hours of silence.
He didn't answer right away. Kept rubbing.
"Because you lasted," he said finally. "Six hours. No tears. No screaming for help. Just… waiting."
I searched his face.
"You sound disappointed."
He met my eyes.
"I'm not."
His hands moved up my arms. Over my shoulders. Down my sides. Not sexual. Just touching. Mapping.
"I thought you'd break faster," he admitted. Quiet. Almost to himself. "I thought the isolation would crack you. Make you small. Make you need me."
I swallowed.
"And?"
He leaned down. Forehead against mine.
"And you didn't."
His breath was warm on my lips.
"You got bigger instead."
I didn't know what to say to that.
He kissed me then. Not hard. Not claiming. Slow. Deep. Like he was tasting something new.
When he pulled back, his voice was rough.
"I'm not letting you go, Gabriella."
"I know."
"But I'm starting to think…" He paused. Thumb brushing my bottom lip. "I'm starting to think you might not want me to."
My heart stuttered.
He smiled. Small. Dangerous. Real.
"Sleep," he said. Pulled the sheet over me. Kissed my forehead.
Then he stood. Walked to the door.
Paused.
"The drawer stays open. The key stays there. The watch stays on the nightstand."
He looked back.
"Next time you test the chain… make sure you're ready to win."
Door closed.
Locked.
I lay there. Wrists throbbing. Anklet cool against my skin. Body humming from his touch.
And for the first time—
I didn't feel caged.
I felt armed.