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THE one good thing about being captured by the Coatls, Iris realized, was that they fed her on a schedule. They didn't keep her malnourished or dehydrated – just enough so that she was a functioning person chained to a sofa. (If that was even possible.) She still didn't have enough energy though, and maybe that was their intention. Iris didn't doubt that they had the same inkling she did: the more energy she gained, the easier it would be for her to burn off the chain. She tried once or twice, after she ate her big dinner they supplied every night at five, but it was a waste of time. She didn't have enough strength.
Iris had been there for almost a week. At least, she was pretty sure it was a week. It could've been just a few days. Time moved so differently when you were stationed to a couch. She watched the History channel on repeat. The sleep she was getting was mediocre, but definitely not any better than she got in her own bed. This sofa became quite comfortable after a while, except it sucked to find a position when one of your hands was literally chained to the arm of the sofa.
She saw Nick every night. He liked to have dinner with her so they could talk and strengthen their "bond," whatever that was. It did nothing on her end. He hardly talked; he only wanted to hear about her. In a way, that should've been a good thing. Most guys loved to talk about themselves, but Nick wanted to know more and more about her life. It would've been a nice gesture if he wasn't holding her hostage.
Dick Grayson also didn't like talking about himself.
Fuck, and here she was thinking that she was getting over him. She had to, seeing as she was forcibly getting married to her cult-leader-captor. (Much to her own dismay, might I add.) It wasn't like she had much to get over anyway. They weren't dating; it was just a mere fling.
Then why couldn't she stop the tears that pricked at her eyes and the painful beat of her heart when she thought of him?
God, fuck again! It wasn't the time to be crying. She needed to figure a way out and fast, but that was becoming increasingly hard when they brought in a tailor that Thursday evening. She was being fitted into her wedding dress. Iris wanted to throw up once she held the catastrophe of lace and tool.
The dress tailor's name was Miguel, and he was a man gosh darn proud of his work, even if he did serve some wack job in a cult. Iris also learned that the man that visited her when she had first woken up was named Jasper, and he came to hand her food and water almost every day. Jasper helped figure out a way for Iris to stand during the tailoring while still being bound to the couch. They had to unravel the chain a little bit so she could get up on Miguel's stool, and Iris took a moment to remind them how utterly ridiculous it was that she was still chained in the first place.
"Please," Miguel huffed, sitting below her, "no complaining while I work."
Iris rolled her eyes. Jasper leaned a full-length mirror against the back of the sofa. She looked at herself in the reflection, swallowing hard at the sight of the hideous dress and its implications. It was a pale turquoise color – to match her necklace, she presumed – and was fitted almost exactly to her body type. All Miguel really had to do was tailor the bottom. The top almost had a full lace bodice, while the skirt was frilly with tool and ruffles. It looked revolting, but she really didn't have much of a choice.
