Chapter 5: The Trap House and the Concrete Abyss

POV: Alexandria

The heavy silk sheets feel like sandpaper against my raw, sensitized skin. Every muscle in my body screams in protest as I shift, a dull, throbbing ache settling deep in my core. I don’t need a mirror to know what he left behind. The dark, possessive bruises blooming across my thighs and the sharp bite marks on my collarbone are a permanent receipt of Belcher’s relentless claiming last night.

And the heavy solid gold collar locked tightly around my throat? That’s just the cherry on top.

"Stop squirming, Alexandria. You’ll only make it worse."

My eyes snap open. Belcher stands by the floor-to-ceiling window, the early dawn light casting long, sharp shadows across his broad shoulders. He’s pulling on a crisp white dress shirt, the fabric stretching over the lethal, coiled muscle of his back. The dark ink of his syndicate tattoos peeks out from the collar.

"I wasn't squirming," I rasp, my voice sounding wrecked and unrecognizable. "I was trying to figure out if I can still feel my legs."

He turns, his icy blue eyes locking onto mine. A dark, arrogant smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He walks over to the bed, his heavy footsteps muffled by the plush carpet, and leans down, bracing his hands on the mattress on either side of my hips.

"You'll feel them just fine when I need you to wrap them around me later," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly purr that sends an unwanted, electric shiver down my spine. "But for now, you're going to stay in this bed."

"I'm not a dog you can just leave in a cage, Belcher," I shoot back, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. "Where are you going?"

He reaches out, his rough thumb tracing the swollen curve of my lower lip. "Emergency at the Embarcadero docks. A rat in the accounting department decided he wanted to keep a few extra zeroes in his pension fund." His eyes darken, the temperature in the room dropping ten degrees. "I have to go break his kneecaps and remind him who owns the port."

My stomach twists into a tight, sickening knot. "You're going to torture someone?"

"I'm going to do my job," he corrects smoothly. He pulls back, his gaze dropping to the gold collar resting against my collarbone. "Stay here. Don't touch the windows. Don't try the door. The security detail has orders to shoot anything that moves in the halls without my biometric clearance."

Without another word, he turns and strides out of the bedroom. The heavy mahogany door clicks shut. A second later, the sharp, electronic beep of the deadbolt engaging echoes through the suite.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Think, Alexandria. Think.

I throw off the tangled sheets, wincing as my bare feet hit the cold marble floor. I grab a heavy emerald silk robe from the armchair, wrapping it tightly around my curvy frame to hide the marks on my skin.

I spot a sleek, black intercom panel on the wall and march over, pressing the glowing green button.

"Yes, Mrs. Morelle?" A crisp, female voice answers instantly.

"I need a phone," I say, keeping my voice steady. "And I want to call my parents. Just to let them know I'm alive."

There is a brief, calculated pause. "Your personal communication devices were confiscated for your security. If you wish to speak to them, you may do so during your scheduled weekly supervised call on Sunday evenings."

"Supervised?" I snap, my temper flaring. "I'm his wife, not a hostage. Let me out of this room."

"The perimeter is locked, Mrs. Morelle. Have a pleasant morning."

Click. The intercom goes dead.

"Unbelievable," I hiss.

I need to find a way out. Or at least find a weapon. A letter opener. A heavy glass ashtray. Anything.

I leave the bedroom and step into the sprawling master suite. It’s a labyrinth of cold marble and dark leather. I check the kitchen… no knives. Just dull, plastic butter knives and a locked wine cellar. I’m completely cut off from the world.

I move into the master study. It’s a massive, intimidating room lined with dark wood paneling and leather-bound books. The air smells faintly of his expensive cologne and gun oil. A huge mahogany desk sits in the center.

I rush over and start pulling open the drawers.

Top drawer: Empty.

Second drawer: A few blank notepads.

Bottom drawer: Locked.

"Come on," I mutter, yanking at the heavy brass handle. It doesn't budge. "Give me something, Belcher. Give me a loophole."

I pace the room, my mind racing. The windows are sealed. The door is biometric. The intercom is monitored. I stop in front of the massive bookshelf on the far wall, running my fingers along the spines of the books, looking for a hidden switch. Nothing.

Frustrated, I lean my weight against the dark wood-paneled wall beside the shelf, closing my eyes for a second to calm my racing heart.

My dad spent twenty years flipping houses in the suburbs. I grew up spotting cheap drywall, bad seams, and structural flaws before I could even read. And right now, my fingertips are telling me something is wrong with this wall.

I open my eyes and press my palm flat against the walnut paneling. I slide my hand down, feeling the grooves.

Click.

My breath hitches. The sound didn't come from the books. It came from right beneath my hand.

I freeze, holding my breath.

Whirrrrr.

A soft, mechanical hum vibrates through the wood. I slowly turn my head. A six-foot section of the wood paneling is sliding silently inward. A hidden electromagnetic latch has disengaged.

Behind the panel, there is no safe. There is no secret stash of cash.

Instead, there is a dark, narrow concrete staircase leading sharply downward into the pitch-black depths of the estate. A faint, cold draft wafts up from the shadows, carrying the metallic scent of morning air and something else... something clinical.

My pulse spikes, a mix of sheer terror and wild, desperate hope flooding my veins. I look back at the bedroom door, then down into the abyss.

"Well," I whisper to the empty room, a reckless smile touching my lips. "Let's see where the rabbit hole goes.”