My eyes immediately water, and I’m sufficiently cowed for a moment. In fact, I keep my face averted and stare at the floor, too afraid to look at him.
I’ve never been struck in my life. My parents were averse to any physical forms of punishment. I’ve never had a man lay a hand on me or been in a fight with another woman. In fact, I’ve led a relatively uninjured and healthy life unless you count the time in fourth grade when I broke my ring finger on my right hand after falling off the monkey bars. I think it was then I realized I was better suited to academia rather than outdoor activities.
“Let’s try this again,” Paul says pleasantly, his hand comes to the top of my head. His fingers flex, dig in, and grab a hunk of my hair. He forces my head around to make me look at him. Bending at the waist, he puts his face near mine and murmurs, “Tell me about the formula you finished. I’ll need all the details, of course.”
“I’m not going to tell you anything,” I tell him and then cringe in anticipation of another blow, squeezing my eyes shut tightly.
But it doesn’t come.
Hesitantly, I open my eyes to find that Paul had straightened his body. He shakes his head, smiling almost devilishly. “Not going to hit you again, Dr. Alexander. It hurts me as much as it hurts you, and I mean that literally. Oh, no… I’ve got something a little easier on me and a lot harder on you if you don’t start talking.”
Oh, God. Him hitting me was bad enough, but knowing he has something worse planned he’s apparently going to relish ratchets up my terror level. Still, I keep my mouth clamped shut.
“Suit yourself,” Paul says, then squats once again. He starts untying my legs from the chair and for a moment, I consider kicking him in the face and running. I even go as far as rolling my ankles once they’re loose, but the immediate onset of pins and needles has me changing course. Gritting my teeth, I wait through the pain as Paul moves to the back of the chair to remove the bindings from my wrists.
I’m not given a chance to work out any kinks or stiff muscles. Immediately, Paul’s hand is back in my hair and he’s physically pulling me out of the chair by it. In his other hand, he holds the rope that was around my wrists. I can’t help but cry out in pain, and it’s all too clear Paul has no qualms about hurting a woman.
In fact, I’d say he’s very much enjoying this.
My legs are numb and weak, but Paul refuses to let me sag. If I want to prevent my hair from being torn out of my head, I have to stay upright and follow along behind him.
In the middle of the room, I notice a thick chain with a rusted hook on the end as big as a salad plate hanging from the ceiling. I have no clue what he has planned for me, but I know whatever it is, I need to be moving away from that chain and hook. Pulling away, I ignore the pain in my scalp. Digging my bare feet down into the concrete, I try to jerk myself loose.
“Oh no you don’t,” Paul says nonchalantly, merely tightening his grip and exerting a bit more force. I’m not strong enough to break free. In no time, I’m standing right under the chain.
He lets go of my hair while ordering, “Hands together.”
I glare, unwilling to help him torture me.
“Look down at my hip,” Paul says conversationally, a light smile on his face.
I lower my eyes and see what he wants me to see. A knife in a hip holster.
“Now, put your hands together or I’m going to put a few carvings into your face.”
The threat is said so softly, and without any real malice, that it makes it even more terrifying and believable. I slam my hands together so hard they make a resounding clap.
Paul grins as he wraps the rope tightly around my wrists, finishing with a triple knot.
“Up you go,” he says. Before I can comprehend what that means, he’s jerking my arms up, pulling me right up to my tiptoes, and slipping my bound wrists over the edge of the hook. I try to go flat-footed, but the ropes are too tight and there’s no give in them. As such, I’m stuck not quite on the very tips of my toes, but most of my weight is on the balls of my feet. If I try to lower myself, it pulls horribly on my shoulders.
Once I’m secure, Paul doesn’t say another word. He merely pivots away from me and leaves the room. From the balls of my feet, I manage to swing myself around to look at the door. He’d left it open, and I immediately try to get my wrists over the hook so I can free myself. I can’t quite extend far enough, though, and I growl in frustration.