The Wrong Kind Of Right
His wrists burned, the skin already raw where coarse rope dug into it, pinning his arms behind the back of a chair.
His ankles were bound too, cinched so tightly he could feel the pulse in his feet throbbing against the restraints.
It took his disoriented mind a few seconds to register the sound, a slow, deliberate dripping somewhere in the room. And then, the faint scuff of boots on concrete.
Reid emerged from the shadows like he had all the time in the world, his face lit only by a swinging bulb overhead.
He was holding a glass, swirling something amber inside. “Awake,” he murmured, as if that was all that mattered.
Bab Populer