Chapter 7 · Glasshouse Terms

The silk was still around my wrists when my eyes cracked open. Dark blue. Tied off to the carved mahogany bedpost.

Dominic sat in the leather armchair across the room. Suit jacket gone, sleeves rolled to the forearms, an untouched glass of whiskey resting on his knee.

"You didn't sleep," I said, my voice rough from disuse.

"Neither did you." He pointed his chin at my hands. "Pull."

"What?"

"Pull your left hand, Mara. Go on."

I yanked. The knot gave immediately, sliding off the polished wood like water.

My stomach bottomed out. The tie had been loose the entire night. At three in the morning, while I lay staring at the ceiling plaster, counting his breaths, I could've slipped out and hit the hallway.

I hadn't even checked.

"That wasn't a restraint," I snapped, sitting up fast. "That was a joke."

"It was a test." He set the whiskey on the side table without looking at it. "You passed. I don't know what that says about you yet. Neither do you.