𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 | 𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦

14

quinn

i was retching.

someone was slightly roughly yanking my hair back as the sweetness got out of my system. i don't know where the disgusting shit went. in a drain, in a bucket. hell, i hoped it got all over my assailant.

breathing heavily, the black spots were still there. as more of the sweetness wore off, i could sort of tell where i was. the bliss of rest, the euphoria of unconsciousness, was gone, leaving my body exposed to the harsh re-awakening of my senses.

the first thing i noticed was, when i tried moving one of my arms to wipe my mouth, i couldn't.

i tried again. nothing.

that was when i knew.

my hands were bound behind my back, with what i assumed was rope from the thickness in which it embedded itself tightly into my wrists. i looked down, and my assumptions were wrong. instead i was bound with a type of stretchy red fabric with a width of around 5cm. it did an amazing job keeping me in place- it bound my tired body to an antique chair of sorts, while my arms were behind the chair- exposed, vulnerable. 

my thumb reached up, felt around, and caught on another piece of the fabric- from what i could see it looped around a spot above my elbow and below it, meeting in an 'X' in the middle that conjoined with the bindings on my wrists.

what i wouldn't give for shoes on my bound feet. there was red on my knees, and my ankles. the antique chair wasn't exactly tall, and the ground that my bare feet grazed against was piercingly cold and made of rough, gray stone.

someone laughed.

i looked up and found myself staring into grayson's eyes.

what

what the hell

this had to be a hallucination. i stole a glance at a clock on the wall- 7:49PM.

shit! my nightly dosage was at 8:00!

the eyes crinkled, their crow's feet wrinkling with the half smile the person flashed at me as he saw me start to attempt to struggle against the imposing red lines. with grayson's eyes, this person was certainly not grayson. he had the same sharp-as-stone features, but with a more weathered look to him, and graying hair. he wore an extravagant three-piece plum velvet suit that was most likely extravagantly expensive. god, how i wished i'd retched on those disgusting crocodile skin shoes.

the grip on my hair was released, and my head fell limply forward as i fought to catch my breath. this was a task indeed. the bindings were so tight around my stomach it could barely contract and expand.

soft, manical laughter rang through what i now deduced as a storage room. a flash of movement, a flick of the rolex-clad wrist- and my chair was tipped forward and i suddenly found myself face first with the floor and struggling to breathe.

i craned my neck to see who was keeping hold of my chair- but before i could, the tip of a gold-plated cane slid neatly below my chin and tilted my head upwards, so i was forced to look at the man.

on second thought, he looked a hell lot like grayson. it was only until he spoke his name that i remembered grayson saying he didn't know who his dad was.

'ms anderson. my name is sheffield grayson, and i think we have much to discuss.'

grayson

fuck where was she

goddamnit

my mind was a mess of swearing as i tried and failed to maintain my calm demeanour on the inside as the passage began twisting and turning in a mess of angles and shadowy corners. it was all i could do to stay in my pocket of light and keep a tight grip on my dagger as i walked, a stone-cold look on my face, my steps even and paced.