22
Cloudlike bed. Silk sheets. A body custom-made for spooning.
Spike pulled Anna closer, her naked back warming his chest as he nuzzled her neck. He was never leaving this bed.
Faint voices came from the TV. “Tienes un visitante.” A telenovela of some sort?
“¿Quién?” The TV’s volume increased on its own.
Was she lying on the remote? He would search for it, but that would require moving. Firmly opposed.
“Carmella Castillo.”
Whatever show this was, he hated it.
Footsteps. The unmistakable tick of high heels. The scuff of cowboy boots. His eyes cracked open, the steady beep of a heart rate monitor pounding upside his head like a mace. Harsh lights flickered above, pale walls surrounding him on all sides. Chains clinked, and he stared at his manacled wrists.
His jaw went slack
