Chapter 3: Velvet Warnings

  Sara’s POV

  I’m sitting on the floor of a moving van like a mispced IKEA chair—awkward, uncomfortable, and probably screwed. Cold metal against my back, the ridged floor digging into my butt like it holds a personal grudge.

  Awesome. This is how I go out. Not in a bze of glory, not even in a sad hospital bed. Nope. In a creepy mafia van. Like a human burrito.

  And the icing? My hands are tied. Not with rough rope, not with zip ties, but... velvet rope.

  Velvet rope? Seriously?

  What is this? Discount dominatrix starter pack?

  At least she has taste. If I’m going to be kidnapped, better it be by someone with luxury standards.

  I sneak a look at her—Raven. She’s sitting across from me like it’s just another Tuesday. Legs crossed, expression unreadable, as if we’re carpooling to brunch and not... crime.

  I keep my expression neutral. Or try to.

  Don’t panic. Don’t show fear. Plot the escape. Yeah, when we stop, I’ll roll out like a ninja. A very tied-up, very uncoordinated squirrel ninja.

  Then she speaks.

  “Your little ten-year-old sister will repce you… if you even think of running or disobeying.”

  ...

  Excuse me, what?

  My blood goes cold. I blink, lips parting like my brain’s buffering. “That’s… just a threat, right?”

  Say yes. Say it’s just words. Say you’re messing with me, dy.

  She doesn’t. She says nothing.

  Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence. The kind that wraps around your chest and squeezes until even hope taps out.

  Okay. Escape pn’s canceled. Little sister trumps freedom. I’ll stay burrito.

  I gnce at her again. She hasn’t blinked once. That calm, quiet predator vibe. Like she already owns me.

  And maybe… she does.

  ---

  This is fine. Totally fine.

  LIKE HELL IT IS.

  I’m in a van with a mafia domme who just threatened my baby sister, tied up like a glitter-wrapped sacrifice, and heading to god-knows-where.

  I’m not panicking. I’m not screaming.

  Just… thinking.

  About velvet ropes. Survival.

  And maybe—just maybe—how to kill her in her sleep.

  Or seduce her.

  Wait—no. Not that.

  I’m straight. Like, never-been-kissed, no-boyfriend-ever, awkward-hug-straight.

  My love life is a bnk Word doc.

  So whatever that flicker was? A trauma glitch.

  Definitely not attraction.

  Right?

  I’ll survive. Somehow.

  Hopefully with my sanity.

  And my

  heterosexuality intact.

  ---