Chapter 4: The Cat's Cradle
The rain had stopped sometime around midnight, leaving Gotham wrapped in that particular kind of silence that only came after a storm—heavy, expectant, like the city itself was holding its breath.
Dick Grayson had spent the last two days trying to convince himself he wasn't going to do this.
He'd failed.
The Orpheum loomed ahead of him, a skeletal carcass against the cloud-choked sky. The marquee was dark now—even the dying neon had finally given up—and the grand doors hung open like a mouth waiting to swallow him whole. He stood on the rooftop across the street, watching the building breathe, and tried to remember why he'd thought this was a good idea.
She'd left him hard and aching on that rooftop. Twice now. Twice she'd taken what she wanted and vanished into the night like smoke, leaving him with nothing but the memory of her taste and the phantom sting of her nails on his skin.
He should have been furious.
He was, a little.
But mostly he was hungry.
The theater swallowed him whole.
Inside, the darkness was absolute—thick and wet and smelling of old oil and rotting wood. His boots crunched on debris as he moved through the lobby, past the concession stand with its shattered glass and faded posters, past the bathrooms with their graffiti-scarred walls. The moonlight filtered through holes in the ceiling, casting everything in silver and shadow.
He found the stairs to the rigging loft by memory. Three weeks ago, he'd fucked her on that stage—the same stage that now sat silent and empty below him, its boards warped and stained. He could still see it in his mind's eye: her suit unzipped to her waist, her tits in his mouth, the way she'd laughed when he came across her stomach.
He climbed.
The rigging loft was a labyrinth of rusted pulleys and frayed ropes, catwalks stretching in every direction like the web of some enormous spider. The air was thick with dust and the sour smell of bird shit, and somewhere in the darkness, water dripped in a steady rhythm.
He stepped onto the main catwalk, his hand brushing the cold steel of the railing, and that's when he heard it.
A creak. Above him.
He looked up just in time to see her falling toward him, a black shape against the shadows, and then she hit him like a freight train.
They went down together, rolling across the catwalk, and he felt the sting of zip-ties biting into his wrists before he could even react. She was fast—faster than he remembered—and she had him pinned before he could get his bearings, her knees on his shoulders, her weight pressing him into the metal grating.
"Hey, bird boy," she said.
"Selina—"
"Shut up."
She yanked his arms above his head, and he heard the click of another zip-tie, then another, securing him to the cable grid that ran along the catwalk's edge. He tugged, testing the bonds, and felt them hold fast—too tight to slip, too strong to break.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" She stood up, brushing dust off her knees, and looked down at him with those green eyes that always made him feel like prey. "I'm tying you up."
"I can see that. Why?"
"Because I want to." She crouched beside him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Because you came looking for me. Because I've been thinking about that night on the rooftop, and I decided I wanted more."
"More what?"
"More of you." She smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made his stomach drop. "All of you. At my mercy."
He pulled at the zip-ties again, and she laughed.
"Struggle all you want. Those are rated for three hundred pounds. You're not going anywhere."
She stood up and walked to a nearby pulley, and he heard the groan of old machinery as she began to crank something. The cable grid shifted beneath him, and suddenly he was rising—lifted off the catwalk, suspended in the air like a marionette with its strings cut.
"What the—"
"Shh." She walked back to him, and he watched her approach upside down, her boots clicking against the grating. "Just relax. I promise you're going to enjoy this."
The cable grid continued to rise, spreading his arms and legs as it went, until he was stretched out horizontal, spread-eagle and helpless, suspended ten feet above the catwalk. The cables creaked with every breath he took. The blood rushed to his head, and he felt dizzy—not just from the position, but from the sheer audacity of what she'd done.
"You're insane," he said.
"You keep saying that like it's an insult." She climbed onto the catwalk railing, balancing effortlessly, and then she stepped off—onto him.
Her boots landed on his chest, and he grunted as the air left his lungs. She crouched there, straddling him, and he could feel the heat of her body through his suit.
"Comfortable?"
"Fuck you."
"Soon." She pulled a knife from her belt—a sleek, curved blade that caught the moonlight—and held it up where he could see it. "Now. Let's get you out of these clothes."
She started at his collar.
The blade slid under the fabric of his suit, cold against his skin, and she cut downward with slow, deliberate strokes. The material parted like butter, exposing his chest, his stomach, the trail of hair that led down to his waist. She worked methodically, cutting away the sleeves, the sides, the back, until his upper body was completely bare.
"You know," she said, "I've wanted to do this since the first time I saw you in this suit. Peel you open like a present."
She traced the knife down his stomach, not cutting—just letting him feel the edge, the threat. His muscles twitched involuntarily, and she smiled.
"Scared?"
"No."
"Liar." She moved lower, cutting away the waistband of his pants, then the legs of his suit, until he was completely naked, suspended in the air, butterflies of torn fabric floating down to the catwalk below. "There. That's better."
He was hard. Embarrassingly, achingly hard, his cock standing at attention like it didn't give a shit about the zip-ties or the knife or the fact that he was hanging ten feet above the ground with no way to defend himself.
Selina noticed.
"Aw," she cooed. "Is that for me?"
"Go to hell."
"Maybe later." She shifted her weight, crawling up his body until she was straddling his face, her knees on either side of his head. She wasn't wearing anything under her suit—of course she wasn't—and he could smell her, that familiar scent of jasmine and sex and something darker underneath.
"You're going to eat me out now," she said. "And you're going to make me come. Understand?"
"Selina—"
"Shut up and use your mouth for something useful."
She lowered herself onto him.
Her cunt pressed against his mouth, hot and wet and slick with her own arousal, and he had no choice but to open for her. She tasted like musk and salt and something sweet, and he lapped at her eagerly, his tongue finding her clit with practiced precision.
"That's it," she breathed. "Right there. Don't stop."
He couldn't stop. He couldn't do anything else. She was grinding against his face now, her hips rolling in slow circles, and he was drowning in her—her taste, her scent, the weight of her on his mouth. He sucked at her clit, flicked it with his tongue, and she moaned above him, her thighs trembling on either side of his head.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, that's good. Keep going."
He kept going.
He couldn't breathe—his nose was buried in her cunt and she was riding his face like she was trying to break a record—but he didn't care. He wanted this. He wanted to make her come, wanted to feel her fall apart on his mouth, wanted to prove that he was good for something even when he was trussed up like a pig for slaughter.
She came with a sharp cry, her whole body convulsing, her nails digging into his chest. He felt the gush of wetness against his mouth and swallowed it down, still licking, still sucking, until she shoved his head back and climbed off him.
"Good boy," she said.
He was gasping for air now, his chest heaving, his lips slick with her juices. She looked down at him with something like affection, and then she leaned forward and took his cock in her hand.
"You made me come," she said. "So I'm going to make you feel good. But only because I want to. Not because you earned it."
She lowered her head and took him in her mouth.
The sensation was electric—her lips wrapping around the head of his cock, her tongue swirling in lazy circles, her hand stroking the base while she worked him deeper. He groaned and tried to thrust up into her, but the cables held him tight, and she laughed around his cock.
"Uh-uh," she said, pulling off just long enough to speak. "You don't get to move. You just get to take it."
She took him deep again, all the way to the back of her throat, and he felt the muscles there squeezing around him. He was shaking now, every nerve in his body on fire, and she kept going—bobbing her head, hollowing her cheeks, doing things with her tongue that should have been illegal.
"I'm going to come," he warned.
She pulled off with a wet pop and looked up at him, her lips swollen and shiny. "Not yet."
"Please—"
"Cute." She climbed up his body, straddling his hips, and he could feel the heat of her cunt hovering just above his cock. "You don't get to come until I say you can. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes—" He swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."
She smiled. "Good boy."
She lowered herself onto him.
The sensation was overwhelming—her tight, wet heat sliding down his cock, clenching around him, pulling him deeper. He groaned and tried to thrust, but the cables held him still, and she laughed at his helplessness.
"That's right," she said. "You can't move. You're mine now. You do what I say."
She started to ride him.
Slow at first, grinding her hips against his, her clit rubbing against his pubic bone with every stroke. The cable grid swayed beneath them, creaking and groaning, and he could feel the drop below—ten feet of empty air, hard metal waiting at the bottom.
But he didn't care.
All he cared about was her—her body moving on his, her hands on his chest, the way she was looking down at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. She picked up the pace, slamming down on him, and the cables screamed in protest.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, you feel good."
"You feel better."
"Shut up."
She leaned forward and bit his neck—hard, her teeth sinking into the muscle, and he felt the sharp sting of broken skin. She held on for a moment, sucking at the wound, and when she pulled back, her lips were red with his blood.
"There," she said. "Now everyone will know."
"Know what?"
"That you're mine."
She fucked him harder after that, her hips slamming against his, her nails raking down his chest. He was close—so fucking close—and he could feel her tightening around him, could tell she was on the edge too.
"Come for me," he said.
"Not yet." She bit her lip and rode him faster. "I'll come when I'm ready. You'll come when I tell you to."
"Selina—"
"I said not yet."
She clenched around him—deliberately, rhythmically—and he saw stars. He was shaking, trembling, every muscle in his body straining against the zip-ties. He needed release. He needed it so badly he could taste it.
But she didn't give it.
She kept riding him, slower now, drawing it out, and he could feel her getting off on it—not just physically, but on the power. On having him helpless and desperate beneath her. On making him wait.
"You're so hard," she murmured. "So fucking hard for me. You'd do anything I said right now, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"Anything?"
"Yes."
She smiled and leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."
She started moving again—faster this time, more urgent, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He could feel her cunt pulsing around him, could tell she was close, and he held on by a thread, waiting for permission.
"Now," she said. "Come now."
He came with a shout, his whole body convulsing, his cock pumping into her. She came at the same time—he felt the rush of wetness, the flutter of her muscles around him—and she collapsed onto his chest, gasping for air.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then she laughed—that low, throaty laugh that made his stomach flip—and pushed herself up.
"Well," she said. "That was fun."
She climbed off him, and he felt the immediate loss of her warmth. He watched her pull her suit back up, zipping it closed, smoothing down her hair. She looked satisfied. Content. Like a cat that had gotten into the cream.
"Let me down," he said.
"In a minute." She walked to the pulley and pulled something from her belt—a small device, blinking red. "First, I want you to think about what happened here tonight. About how it felt to be helpless. To have someone else in control."
"Selina—"
"I own you now." She hit a button on the device, and he heard the whir of machinery—not the pulley holding him, but something else. "You can pretend you don't want this. You can tell yourself it's just sex. But we both know the truth."
"Which is what?"
She walked back to him and pressed a kiss to his forehead—gentle, almost tender.
"That you loved every second of it."
She stepped off the catwalk and disappeared into the darkness.
The device in her hand was still blinking.
He felt the cable grid shudder, and then it began to lower—slowly, gently, until he was only a few feet above the catwalk. The zip-ties released automatically, and he dropped onto the metal grating, his legs barely catching him.
By the time he found his feet, she was gone.
He stood there in the darkness, naked and bleeding and covered in her scent, and he listened to the silence of the old theater.
Somewhere above him, a rope creaked.
Somewhere below, the city waited.
And somewhere in between, a woman was laughing.
He touched the wound on his neck—the bite mark, still wet with blood—and felt something that might have been shame. Or anger. Or the beginnings of an obsession he didn't know how to name.
She was right, of course.
He had loved every second of it.
And he was already thinking about the next time.
The theater breathed around him, old and patient, and Dick Grayson stood in the dark and made a decision.
He wasn't going to chase her anymore.
He was going to wait.
Because she would come back—she always came back—and when she did, he would be ready.
He would be the one in control.
The rain started again, drumming against the roof like applause, and he smiled.
Game on.
The rain started again, drumming against the roof like applause, and he smiled.
Game on.
He didn't see her for six days.
Six days of patrols that took him past the Orpheum twice a night. Six days of checking rooftops, of scanning fire escapes, of listening for the particular rhythm of her footsteps on wet gravel. Six days of telling himself he wasn't looking for her.
He was looking for her.
The bite mark on his neck had healed into a crescent scar—a pale reminder that throbbed every time he touched it. He'd stopped touching it. Mostly. He'd also stopped sleeping, stopped eating anything that required more effort than a protein bar, stopped pretending that this was anything other than what it was.
An obsession.
Barbara had called twice. Alfred had called once. He'd let both go to voicemail, and then he'd deleted the messages without listening to them. Whatever they had to say could wait.
Everything could wait.
Except her.
On the seventh night, he found a note in his apartment.
It was tucked under his pillow—a violation that should have alarmed him, that should have made him check the locks, check the windows, check the security footage. Instead, he sat on the edge of his bed and unfolded the paper with fingers that trembled slightly.
The docks. Pier 17. Midnight.
Come alone.
Come hungry.
He didn't recognize the handwriting. That was the point.
He burned the note in the kitchen sink and watched the ashes spiral down the drain. Then he showered, dressed, and spent the next four hours pretending he wasn't counting the minutes.
The docks smelled like salt and rot.
Pier 17 was a skeletal thing—a long wooden finger stretching into black water, its pilings slick with algae and barnacles. The warehouses behind it were dark, their windows shattered, their walls tagged with faded gang signs. A single streetlight buzzed overhead, casting everything in sickly orange.
She was standing at the end of the pier.
He saw her from a hundred yards away—that unmistakable silhouette, lean and dangerous, her suit gleaming wetly in the lamplight. She wasn't hiding. Wasn't crouching in the shadows or hanging from some impossible perch. She was just standing there, arms crossed, watching him approach.
He walked slowly. Deliberately. He wanted her to see him coming.
"You got my note," she said when he was ten feet away.
"I got it."
"And you came."
"I'm here."
She smiled—that slow, predatory smile that made his blood run hot. "Good boy."
"Don't call me that."
"Why not?" She stepped closer, her boots clicking on the wet wood. "You liked it well enough when I was riding your face."
He didn't answer. Couldn't. Because she was right, and they both knew it.
"I've been thinking about you," she said.
"I bet you have."
"You're angry."
"Shouldn't I be?" He stopped a few feet from her, close enough to see the rain beading on her shoulders, the way her hair plastered to her skull. "You tied me up. Cut my clothes off. Left me hanging in a fucking theater like a piece of meat."
"You came."
"That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point." She reached up and touched his face—a feather-light brush of her fingers against his cheek. "You came because you wanted to. Because you needed to. Because you couldn't stay away."
"I came to tell you this is over."
"Liar."
"I came to tell you I'm done playing your games."
"Liar." She stepped into him, her body pressing against his, and he could feel the heat of her through both their suits. "You came because you're addicted to me. Because I'm in your head, and you can't get me out. Because every time you close your eyes, you feel my mouth on your cock."
His jaw tightened. "Fuck you."
"Promises, promises."
She kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was a claiming—her tongue forcing its way past his lips, her hands fisting in his hair, her teeth nipping at his bottom lip. He kissed her back because he couldn't not—because every cell in his body was screaming for her, because he'd spent six days dreaming about this, because he was weak and she was strong and that was the way it had always been.
When she finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
"Here's what's going to happen," she said. "You're going to walk to that warehouse. You're going to go inside. And you're going to do exactly what I tell you to do."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll leave. And you'll never see me again." She met his eyes, and there was something cold in her gaze—something that told him she wasn't bluffing. "Is that what you want?"
The rain fell between them, filling the silence.
"No," he said.
"Good."
She turned and walked toward the warehouse, and he followed.
The warehouse was empty except for a mattress.
It sat in the center of the concrete floor, bathed in a pool of light from a single hanging bulb. The mattress was bare—no sheets, no pillows—just stained fabric and exposed springs. It looked like something you'd find in an alley. Something you'd burn.
"Charming," he said.
"I didn't bring you here for the decor." Selina walked to the mattress and turned to face him. "Strip."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." She crossed her arms. "Take off your clothes. All of them. And do it slowly. I want to watch."
He should have refused. Should have turned around and walked out, gone back to his apartment, back to his life, back to the sane world where people didn't let psychopaths in cat suits order them around. But his hands were already moving, already reaching for the zipper of his suit.
He stripped slowly.
He peeled the suit off like a second skin, let it pool around his ankles. He kicked off his boots. He peeled his briefs down his thighs, his legs, and let them fall. When he stood up, he was completely naked, and she was watching him with an expression that made his cock twitch.
"Better," she said. "Now lie down."
"On that?"
"On that."
He walked to the mattress and lay back, the springs groaning beneath him. The fabric was cold and gritty against his skin, and he could smell something vaguely chemical—bleach, maybe, or mold. He stared up at the hanging bulb and listened to her footsteps approach.
She stood over him, looking down.
"You're beautiful," she said. "You know that?"
"I've been told."
"Not like this." She knelt beside the mattress and ran her hand down his chest, her nails grazing his nipples, his stomach, the trail of hair that led to his cock. "Not when you're spread out for me. Not when you're waiting for me to do whatever I want to you."
"And what do you want to do to me?"
She smiled.
"Everything."
She started with her mouth.
She kissed her way down his body—his neck, his chest, his stomach—leaving a trail of fire in her wake. He felt her tongue trace the line of his hip, felt her teeth graze the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. When she finally took his cock in her mouth, he groaned and arched off the mattress.
"Stay still," she said against his skin.
"I'm trying—"
"Try harder."
She took him deep—all the way to the back of her throat—and he felt the muscles there squeeze around him. She worked him with her hand and her mouth, a rhythm that was slow and deliberate and absolutely fucking devastating.
"You taste good," she murmured. "I forgot how good you taste."
"Selina—"
"Shut up."
She sucked him harder, hollowing her cheeks, and he had to grip the edge of the mattress to keep from coming. She pulled off just before he hit the edge, leaving him gasping and desperate.
"Not yet," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because I want to feel you inside me first."
She stood up and stripped off her own suit—fast, efficient, nothing like the deliberate slowness she'd demanded of him. When she was naked, she climbed onto the mattress and straddled his hips.
"I want you to fuck me," she said. "But not like last time. Not fast and rough. I want you to take your time. I want to feel every inch of you."
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please let me touch you."
She considered this for a moment. Then she reached down and guided his hands to her hips—not tied, not bound, just free. He could grab her if he wanted to. Could flip her over. Could take control.
But that wasn't what she wanted.
That wasn't what he wanted.
She lowered herself onto him, and he felt the tight, wet heat of her cunt swallow his cock inch by inch. She was slow—so fucking slow—and he watched her face as she took him, watched her eyes flutter closed, watched her lips part in a soft gasp.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, you fill me up."
"You feel—"
"I know." She started to move—a slow, grinding rhythm that made his toes curl. "I know exactly how I feel."
He gripped her hips and let her ride him.
She was beautiful like this—naked and wild and unguarded. Her tits swayed with every movement, her hair plastered to her face, her nails digging into his chest. He watched his cock slide in and out of her, slick with her wetness, heard the obscene wet sound of their bodies meeting.
"You're so wet," he said.
"Because of you." She leaned forward, letting her tits press against his chest, and kissed him. "Because you make me wet. Because I think about you all the time. Because I can't stop."
"Selina—"
"I hate you for it." She whispered the words against his lips. "I hate that you're in my head. I hate that I can't let you go."
"Then don't."
She pulled back and looked at him—really looked at him—and something in her expression shifted. Softened. For just a moment, she wasn't a predator or a thief or a criminal. She was just a woman, lost and wanting, and he was just a man.
"I can't," she said.
"You can."
"No." She shook her head, and her rhythm faltered. "I don't know how."
He reached up and cupped her face in his hands. She could have pulled away. Could have bit him. Could have laughed and called him a romantic fool. Instead, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.
"I'll teach you," he said.
She kissed him again—softer this time, almost tender.
Then she started to move again.
Faster now, more urgent. She rode him like she was trying to exorcise something, her hips slamming against his, her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. He matched her rhythm, thrusting up into her, and the mattress springs screamed beneath them.
"Harder," she demanded. "Fuck me harder."
He gripped her ass and drove into her. She cried out—not pain, not quite pleasure—and her nails raked down his chest, leaving bright red lines in their wake. He didn't care. He wanted her to mark him. Wanted to wear her scratches like a badge.
"I'm close," she gasped.
"Me too."
"Don't you dare come until I do."
"Then come for me."
She clenched around him—deliberately, rhythmically—and he saw stars. He was barely holding on, barely keeping it together, and she was so fucking beautiful, so fucking perfect, and he couldn't stop, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel.
"Selina—"
"Now." She threw her head back and screamed. "Now, now, now—"
He felt her come around him, felt the flood of wetness, felt her whole body convulse. And he let go—pumping into her, filling her, his vision going white. The release was violent. Overwhelming. He was shaking, trembling, and she collapsed onto his chest, her heart pounding against his.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then she kissed the wound on his neck, the one she'd given him seven days ago, and whispered something he couldn't quite hear.
"What?" he asked.
She pulled back and looked at him. There was something in her eyes—something he couldn't name.
"I said," she began, "that we're not done yet."
She climbed off him and walked to a dark corner of the warehouse, returning with something in her hands. He couldn't see what it was—not until she stepped into the light.
Cables. Zip-ties. A ball gag.
"Selina—"
"Shh." She knelt beside the mattress and pressed a finger to his lips. "You said you'd do whatever I told you to. Remember?"
"I remember."
"Good." She smiled—that dangerous, feline smile that made his stomach flip. "Because I'm not finished with you. Not by a long shot."
She flipped him onto his stomach and went to work.
The cables were cold against his wrists, the zip-ties tight enough to bite. She spread his arms and legs, securing him to the mattress springs, until he was spread-eagled and helpless beneath her. He heard the click of the ball gag, felt her fingers in his hair, and then the rubber was pressing against his lips.
"Open."
He opened.
The gag filled his mouth—too big, stifling, making it hard to breathe. He tried to speak, but only a muffled sound came out, and she laughed.
"That's better," she said. "Now I don't have to listen to you pretend you're in control."
She straddled his back and ran her hands over his shoulders, his spine, his ass. He felt her nails trail down his skin, felt her lips press against the back of his neck.
"I'm going to fuck you now," she said. "Not with my cunt. With my fingers. With my fist. I'm going to open you up and take what I want, and you're not going to stop me."
He tried to say her name, but the gag turned it into a moan.
"That's what I thought."
She reached for something—a bottle, a tube—and he heard the click of a cap. Then her fingers were pressing against him, slick and cold, circling his entrance.
"Relax," she said. "It hurts less if you relax."
He tried to relax. Tried to breathe. But she was already pushing inside him, one finger, then two, and the sensation was overwhelming—pain and pleasure and something in between.
"Good boy," she murmured. "Taking it so well."
She worked him open slowly, methodically, adding more fingers, more lube, until he was gasping into the gag and straining against the cables. He was hard again—impossibly hard—and he could feel himself dripping onto the mattress beneath him.
"Ready?" she asked.
He shook his head. Nodded. Didn't know.
She pulled her fingers out—slowly, deliberately—and he heard her moving behind him. Something else pressed against him. Something bigger than fingers.
"I found this in the theater," she said. "Thought it might come in handy."
He didn't have to ask what it was. Not when she started to push it inside him—a dildo, thick and ridged and absolutely fucking relentless. He screamed into the gag, his whole body convulsing, and she laughed.
"That's it," she said. "Take it. Take all of it."
She fucked him with the dildo—slow at first, then faster, harder, until he was shaking and sweating and completely undone. He came without permission—couldn't help it—his cock twitching against the mattress, his come pooling beneath him.
"Did you just come?" she asked.
He nodded, ashamed.
"Without permission?"
Another nod.
She pulled the dildo out and flipped him over. He was still hard—miraculously, impossibly hard—and she looked down at him with something like delight.
"You're insatiable," she said. "I love it."
She climbed on top of him and shoved her fingers into her own cunt—wet, sloppy, desperate. She was touching herself, he realized. Getting off on what she'd just done to him.
"You want to come again?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Too bad."
She came on her own fingers—shuddering, gasping, her eyes locked on his—and then she climbed off him and stood up.
"I'm going to leave now," she said. "But don't worry. I'll be back."
He tried to speak, tried to beg, but the gag turned everything into noise.
She dressed slowly. Deliberately. Watching him the whole time.
"I'll come back," she said again. "When I'm ready. And when I do, I expect you to be here. Waiting for me. Like a good little bird."
She walked to the warehouse door and paused.
"Oh, and Dick?"
He looked up at her.
"I told you I own you now. I meant it."
She stepped out into the rain and disappeared.
He lay there for hours—maybe minutes, maybe days—feeling the cables bite into his wrists and the come dry on his stomach. The single bulb swung overhead, casting shadows that moved like living things.
Eventually, the zip-ties loosened. Eventually, he pulled himself free. Eventually, he stood on shaking legs and gathered his torn suit and walked out into the rain.
But he didn't go home.
He went back to the rooftops. Back to the place where she'd first kissed him, first touched him, first made him feel like something other than a soldier in a war he'd never wanted to fight. He sat on the edge of a building and looked out at the city and felt the scar on his neck throb.
He wanted her.
He hated her.
He wanted her.
The rain kept falling, and the city kept spinning, and somewhere in the darkness, a woman was waiting.
She always came back.
She would come back.
He just had to be patient.
He just had to wait.