Trapped, Bound & Totally Fucked

(ZAYNE'S POV)

My wrists burn. The metal's cutting into my skin, and every time I move, it just bites deeper. I stopped trying to break free about five minutes ago when it became obvious that whoever made these cuffs knew exactly what the hell they were doing. These aren't some cheap sex-shop toys-they're the real deal. Police-grade. Military, maybe.

The room's quiet now, except for my breathing. The sound is ragged, and uneven. My throat's raw from screaming into the gag. My heart's pounding so loud I can hear it in my ears.

I'm still naked. Completely fucking naked.

Cold air brushes over my skin, goosebumps prickling along my arms, and it hits me again-how bad this actually is. How royally screwed I am.

Dominik D'Angelo.

The name alone makes my stomach twist.

That's who she meant. That's who she works for.

He sent her to me-to seduce me, lure me out, get me in her bed... and then take me. And I fell right into the goddamn trap like a dumb, horny idiot.

I let my guard down. I fucking trusted her.

No-worse-I wanted her.

And now, because of that, I'm cuffed to her bed, gagged like some animal waiting for slaughter.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing back a groan. "You fucking idiot," I mutter into the gag, though it comes out muffled and pathetic. My body tenses, frustration clawing through me until I can't tell if I want to cry or scream.

Aurianna told me this would happen. She warned me-told me to stay the hell home, keep my ass low, stop acting like I'm invincible. But no. I just had to go out. Had to chase a distraction. Had to get laid.

And now I'm going to die because I couldn't keep my dick in my pants.

There's a noise, the sound of heels clicking on the hardwood floor outside. I freeze, my breath catching. The sound gets closer, louder, until the door swings open.

Natasha steps inside.

But she's not the same woman who had me moaning under her an hour ago. Gone is the short, skin-tight mini dress. Her hair's up in a tight ponytail now. She's wearing a black leather jacket, leather pants, and boots-the kind of outfit that screams danger from a mile away.

And she's holding something that makes my blood run cold.

A gun.

"Jesus Christ," I try to say, but the gag turns it into a choked sound.

She cocks the gun with one smooth motion, her gaze cold and steady as she raises it. She closes one eye, lines up the barrel with my forehead, and tilts her head slightly-like she's trying to get the best aim.

My lungs seize.

Every muscle in my body locks up. My heart goes from pounding to hammering, beating so fast it hurts. My chest rises and falls in shallow, desperate bursts. I squeeze my eyes shut, and for the first time in years, I start praying.

God, please. I'm so sorry. For all of it. For every bad I've done. Just-just don't let me die like this.

I wait for it-the bang, the flash, the burning pain.

But it doesn't come.

Instead, I hear... laughter?

I slowly open one eye, then the other.

Natasha's laughing hard. Like, head-thrown-back, shoulders-shaking kind of laughter. She lowers the gun, still chuckling, and plops down into a chair across the room.

"Oh my God," she says between laughs, wiping at her eye. "You should've seen your face, Zayne. You looked like you were about to piss yourself."

She waves the gun lazily in the air like it's a fucking toy.

My whole body's still trembling. Rage and humiliation bubble up together, hot and suffocating.

She grins at me, wicked and amused. "Relax, pretty boy. I'm not gonna kill you. Don D'Angelo wants to do that himself."

The way she says it-so casual, so fucking cheerful-makes my stomach twist.

Then she leans forward a little, resting her elbows on her knees. "But right now, I've gotta wait for the guys to come pick us up and take you to the Don."

My heart sinks to the bottom of my chest.

She sets the gun down on the small table beside her and leans back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, pulls out her phone, and starts scrolling like we're not even in the middle of a goddamn hostage situation.

Every now and then, she laughs again-at whatever she's watching. TikTok videos, probably. Some influencer bullshit.

Meanwhile, I'm still cuffed to her bed, gagged, naked, blood drying on my face from where she hit me.

And the clock on the wall keeps ticking. Each second feels like another step closer to the end.

Because somewhere out there, Dominik D'Angelo's waiting.

And when his men come through that door...

I know I'm fucking dead.