Chapter 10: Tell Me I’m Wrong

“Feel better?” I asked as Isla stepped out of the bedroom. “Glad to be out of those?”

She was wearing one of my old button-up shirts—the kind I hadn’t touched in ages because it hung too long on me. But on her, it worked. It draped like a dress, loose and soft from too many washes, the perfect thing for lounging around the house.

“Yeah,” she said, rubbing her damp hair with a towel. “It was nice to get out of those clothes ... and take a shower.”

She looked up at me, her eyes following my gaze to the restraints still sitting next to the partially unzipped bag on the coffee table. That’s when she realized I wasn’t talking about the clothes. A faint flush colored her cheeks, as if she felt embarrassed for not immediately thinking about the obvious—that I was referring to her getting out of the cuffs.

“Yeah ... those too,” she added quietly.

I gave her a small smile. She’d only acknowledged the cuffs after catching my gaze, but I didn’t want to push it or make her feel self-conscious. So, I turned toward the kitchen instead.

“Leftovers?” I offered. “Figured we could finish them off tonight. I’m not really in the mood to cook ... unless you are?”

“Yeah. Sounds great,” she said, nodding.

“We should go to the grocery store tomorrow,” I said, grabbing two bowls from the cabinet. “Maybe on the way back from the fair? You mentioned wanting to go.”

“Yeah,” she echoed, a little softer this time, almost automatic. “That sounds great.”

I realized she wasn’t really listening—not fully. It was there in the way her eyes lingered on the coffee table, her fingers absently twisting the towel in her hands. She heard me, sure, but her mind was somewhere else entirely.

I spooned the leftover noodles into bowls, warmed them up, and carried everything to the coffee table—forks, napkins, the usual rhythm of dinner at home. She sat cross-legged on the couch while I settled in beside her.

Steam rose from the bowls between us, and for a while, the only sound was the soft clink of utensils. Isla stared down at her food, absently twisting her fork into the noodles before finally taking a bite.

Her eyes flicked toward the coffee table again. Noticing where her thoughts seemed to be, I suggested, “We could go through all of the keys ... maybe after we eat? You know, go through the bag.”

“Especially after what Sheriff Collins told us,” I added, finishing the last few bites of my food.

When we met with the sheriff, he mentioned that they kept a set of keys for all the cuffs and padlocks—just in case something happened. He didn’t go into specifics about what “something” meant, but it was clear he was implying that if Isla were taken in, they’d have the keys to her cuffs.

“Yeah,” she murmured, chewing slowly. “We should do that ... make sure we have keys for the other restraints.”

Her gaze then drifted toward the leather belt sticking out of the top of the bag.

“We should check the belt too ... see how it works with the cuffs,” she said. “Since you’ll need to put me in it after we’re done eating.”

I nodded, setting my fork down. She was thinking about what Sherrif Collins had told us—how she’d have to stay in restraints, even here at home.

“I think we’ll only need to use them if you have to leave the apartment, head to the parking lot, or go somewhere in the building,” I said. “Otherwise, it’s just us here. No one’s going to know you’re not in them.”

I looked at Isla, giving her a sympathetic smile. “It wouldn’t make much sense otherwise. What are you supposed to do at night—sleep like that? In leg cuffs, with your hands chained to your waist? If you slept on your side, the cuffs would dig into your wrists. If you lay on your back, the padlock would press into your spine.”

I trailed off, realizing how much thought I’d given it. Embarrassment crept in—what did it say about me, imagining my girlfriend sleeping in restraints?

But it didn’t faze her. Isla gave a faint nod, her eyes still on her bowl. Instead, her lips pressed together, like she was holding something back. Her gaze lingered—not on me, but somewhere in the middle distance. There was something flickering behind her eyes, but I couldn’t read it. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, like the thought had struck a chord she wasn’t ready to acknowledge out loud.

“Yeah ... you’re right,” she said eventually. Then, more quietly, “I didn’t even think about sleeping. I’d have to lie on my stomach, with the belt and the hinged cuffs behind my back.”

I looked at her, a little surprised. While I was worried I’d even considered it, she seemed to have thought about it herself.

“Hmm ... yeah, I guess that could work,” I said, trying to sound casual, like I was just going along with the conversation. Then I quickly added, hoping to make it clear I wasn’t seriously suggesting she wear them to bed, “The belt buckle might dig into your stomach after a while, though—so maybe just the cuffs would be enough.”

But even that came out wrong.

Isla didn’t seem to notice—or if she did, she didn’t care. She went on, still speaking softly, completely unfazed. She seemed genuinely focused on figuring out how she might sleep in them.

“Yeah, I guess I might feel the buckle,” she murmured. “But the belt would keep my hands centered behind me. It’d make it hard to accidentally roll onto my side while I’m sleeping.”

She paused, seeming to think it through more deeply. Then she added, “I guess you’d have to cuff my ankles to the footboard—far enough apart that I couldn’t roll over. Between the leg cuffs and the handcuffs, I’d be forced to sleep in that position.”