Lucas watched her drink. Watched the way her hands cupped the glass, the way her eyes closed for a second as the water hit her tongue. The glass was half-empty when she lowered it, and she held it in her lap, her bound-together legs still splayed on the sheets, the rope marks raw against her olive skin.
"We're not done with you," Lucas said. His voice was flat, matter of-fact, but there was no cruelty in it. Just a statement. A fact of the night. "But we're not in a rush either."
Zoe's hand moved. She set the glass down on the nightstand and raised her hands the rope burns visible, the angry red lines crossing her wrists and touched her own throat. Then she pointed at Lucas. Then at the bathroom. Then at her own chest, her fingers pressing against her sternum.
A sequence. A request.
L
