With that thought, I go through with it, not second-guessing a thing.
I grab his wrist and it’s by sheer dumb luck that he wakes up and grabs my throat with that hand. His dark eyes open wide and he stares daggers at me. Pinning me with a fierce look, the fear I knew I held for him deep down makes me still.
The look he shows is of startle and shock, and I don’t let it distract me, even if I do scream out of instinct.
I drop my head down, shoving my face into the headboard, feeling the burn rising over my head from hitting my nose, and slip the metal around his wrist, scraping it against his skin as he screams at me, locking it into place.
“What the fuck are you doing?” his voice bellows in the room. His grip tightens for a moment, right before releasing me altogether.
I can still feel the imprint of his hand on my throat, the power he has to hurt me. I can feel it as I kick away from him, fighting with the sheets to get far enough away.
Scrambling backward, I fall hard off the bed onto my back, gasping for breath as my heart attempts to climb out of my throat.
Jase rips his arm back, yelling in vain as the metal digs into his wrist and the bed shakes, but he remains attached to it. Cuffed to the bed. He does it again and again and each time I lie on my back like a coward, my elbows propping me up on the floor as I wait with bated breath to see if I have trapped the beast.
“What the fuck did you do?” he jeers. “Where’s the key?” he asks in a snarl.
Silence. Did I really do it? Thump.
“Where’s the fucking key!” he screams until his face turns red. The anger seeps into the air around us as I slowly stand.
“I have the key,” I manage to say somehow calmly, still in disbelief. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, breathing from his nostrils and slowly coming to the realization of what’s happened. The way he looks down at me, like I betrayed him—I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t kill something inside of me.
I ruin what I touch. I should have known this would end with him hating me.
“Give it to me,” he requests with an eerily calm tone, one that chills me to my bones.
“No,” I say, and the word falls from me easily. More easily than I could have imagined as I stand up straighter, walking slowly around the edge of the bed. Not unlike the way he does to me when I undress for him.
His dark eyes narrow on me. “Don’t do this. I won’t be mad. Just give me the key.”
Thump. Thump. Fear burns inside of me. The fear of both repenting, and the fear of going through with it.
I keep walking, slowly making my way to the dresser and Jase’s eyes move to it before looking back at me. “What are you doing?” he asks me, and then I hear him swallow. I hear the hint of fear creeping into his voice. “Give me the key.”
I ignore his demand and pick up the gun. I don’t aim it at him, I merely hold it and tell him, “Put the open cuff around your other wrist.” Although I lack true confidence, the gun slipping slightly in my sweaty palms.
“And how would you like me to do that?” Jase questions, a lack of patience and irritation are the only things I can hear in his voice. Like I’m a child asking for something ridiculous.
“You’re a big boy,” I bite back, “I’m sure you can figure it out.”
All the while I watch him and he watches me, my heart does this pitter-patter in my chest making me think it’s giving up on me as it stalls every time Jase looks back. Using the pillow and occasionally leaning down to hold the cuff between his teeth, he struggles to lock it. I don’t trust him enough to do it myself though. There’s no way he wouldn’t grab me.
My heart beats faster with each passing second as he attempts to close the cuff himself.
Every moment his gaze touches mine, questioning why I’d do this, I question it myself.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper when I hear the cuff finally pushed into place. He rests his wrists against the iron rod, pushing it tighter and securing it.
“Then put the gun down,” he urges me and I listen. I set it down on the dresser where it sat only minutes ago and hesitantly turn to him, each wrist cuffed to his bed.
“You can still uncuff me,” he suggests with more dominance than he should have. Especially because I lift the knife at the end of his sentence.