Pin Against Wall Novels & Stories

Patrick impatiently urged. Pierce opened the door, and Patrick didn’t know how to react. He loved everything about it, from the light fixtures’ soft glow down to the matte black paint on the walls. The room oozed masculinity, but it still had a touch of softness brought from the potted plants, the fabric choices, and the silver accents.

I scream, twisting my body, trying to squirm out of his grip. Colton lets out a low, warning growl that vibrates deep in his chest. His large hand flies out, wrapping firmly around both of my wrists in a single grip, pinning my hands flat against the wooden wall above my head. He holds me there effortlessly with one hand, completely neutralizing my struggles.

1:29. Dante inserted the pin into a tiny seam on the casing, twisting it with precise pressure. A soft click echoed—louder than it should have been in the frenzy. The numbers froze at 1:25. The humming stopped. The wires went slack. He stood slowly, pocketing the pin, and turned to face the room.

“Not how to win—but how to stay whole.” “It’s worth it,” I answer. Around midnight, I make one last circuit of the inner ring. A screw loose at the storeroom lock—I tighten it. A strap misaligned on the armory shelf—I fix it. A kitchen bell a fraction off—I reset it. These are the movements that make a wall—not words. Before dawn, I stop in the eastern corridor. The stone is cold, but doesn’t drink the warmth from my hand. The wall answers nothing. It simply holds.