Kent comes to my side, grabbing my right arm and pulling it forward as he moves to the other side of the table. He still holds my arm firmly in his grip as he goes, making be bend over the table to move with him –
Which, I suddenly realize, is precisely what Kent wanted.
When I’m bent at the waist, my torso stretched across the table, Kent produces a set of handcuffs attached by their chain to a metal loop on the table’s edge. While I watch, he snaps the handcuffs tight around my right wrist, attaching me firmly to the metal table.
Then, he looks at me. “Your other wrist,” he demands, holding out his hand for it across the table.
“No!” I shout, scared but also suddenly furious. I’m not going to be complicit in my own torture.
“Fay,” he says, his voice threatening. “This will be muc
