Something's not right.

My sheets are too smooth. I feel every inch of them. The mattress is perfect—not saggy in the middle. And I can't detect a chill in the air.

Still, I'm not comfortable. My arms ache. And I feel a little sick and weak. Dehydrated or something.

And when I attempt to roll over, I'm met with resistance.

My eyes want to snap open, but they sort of peel open. I'm in a strange room at a strange angle. Daylight is making a grim appearance through the lacy curtains. It's early and overcast.

I've apparently survived the night, although I have very little recollection of what happened after dinner.

I was trying to get Ishmael to tell me something, using both honey and vinegar. Rosemary came in and left abruptly...

She doesn't like me. Gee, I wonder why? It could have something to do with this bedroom. It's spacious and opulent, probably the master bedroom. I may be alone now, but my hands are bound over my head. I certainly didn't do that to myself.

Squirming around, glancing down, I don't think I'm wearing any clothing. Yes, it's just me between the expensive sheets.

The shooting pain in my right leg shifts my panic to a higher gear. It covers me in a sheen of sweat. A heart attack doesn't seem so far-fetched.

Calm down...

I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and wait for the pain to ease.

By the count of thirty—all the time I'll allow myself—it has ebbed to a dull ache.

I try to move my leg again, gentler this time. It functions like it should. I can wiggle my toes. The knee and ankle are all right. It's just the thigh. I don't think it's broken, but the pain, when I twist it at all, is too intense to be just a bruise.

When I reopen my eyes, I hope to reevaluate the situation with a clearer head. Looking up, it's just a few neck ties connected to each other. They're tight and were secured with expert hands, but I think I'll be able to wriggle my way out, eventually.

Why don't I remember how I got here or what followed? There are about ten hours unaccounted for. Why does this keep happening? I've never had trouble with my memory before, especially in situations like these!

Been there, done that. I'm the reigning queen of almost, but I'm not sure I have any claim left to that crown.

Had I been fully conscious—and not drunk, or drugged, or under a spell—I would have freaked out, just like I did with Ted—when the handcuffs snapped on and the belt came off. He was just "playing around," but he gave me a black eye when I didn't find it funny.

I shudder off that notion and suppress all the others—there's no time for that—so I can focus on my current dilemma. Ishmael is not Ted. He may be cultured and charming, and chillingly calm through the worst of my outbursts, but behind closed doors, he's probably ten times the sadist.

Hard to believe, but I'm actually making progress. The wrist hole is up to the fattest part of my right hand. I keep tugging and shifting it around. My wrists are both raw, but I haven't broken the skin yet.

With a grunt that's a little too loud, my hand pulls free. Before I move on, I listen for voices or footsteps. Hearing none, I maneuver myself to my knees, confirming that I am fully naked. I also discover the source of my leg pain. On my inner thigh, about three inches from where my underwear should be—had I been wearing any—there are two identical red puncture marks about an inch apart.

Relative freedom may be close at hand, but my fingers seem to forget how to function. The remaining struggle is clumsier and more drawn out than it should be, but I do, in a matter of minutes, untangle myself completely.

Getting out of bed is another task. After a deep, cringing breath, I put weight on my leg. There's a stabbing pain, but it's short-lived and my weight finds support. Balance is another concern, but that has more to do with the lightheadedness. There's a haze and sluggishness I can't seem to shake. It's more than just my bad eyesight. My mind is fairly sharp, almost normal, but my vision and coordination are sort of sputtering now that I'm on my feet.

Still, I manage to find my dress—in a heap, right beside the bed, like someone, in a prone position, let it slip from a lax hand. It doesn't seem torn or soiled. Putting it on, the silky sensation gives me a sense of deja vu. I'm not getting a clear picture, though. It was pitch black in here . . . I think. But I can vaguely recall the flimsy grip I had, my hands crossed at my hips. The fabric was too tight and delicate to get a good hold on it. Pulling it over my head was an ungraceful struggle. I was the one to remove it.

I'm not sure this "memory" is reliable, though. Maybe Ishmael put this  in my head, or it could have been a dream or some drug-induced fantasy. If it did happen, my inhibitions were probably down, and I did everything in my power to win his . . . I don't even know. Affection? Sympathy? Prue certainly doesn't have any, but it's doubtful he does either, so it was all just . . . pointless and humiliating.

Where is my underwear? It's just a thong, but still...

I hobble around the bed, as quickly and quietly as I can, and can't seem to find them anywhere.

What did I earn myself last night besides shame? A gourmet meal? A night in a real bed? Was it worth it?

My search leads me to the window. I immediately duck down. Ishmael is out there, walking away from the house, seemingly on a mission that doesn't include me. And I don't think he saw me.

Yes, it was all worth it, if...

Screw the underwear. And the heels. I never came across them, either.

I bolt toward the bedroom door, the surge of adrenaline dulling the pain in my leg. Surprisingly, it opens. No struggle. It's not even locked.

Choosing speed above stealth, I hesitate in the hallway for only an instant, just enough to orient myself. It's the same room I was brought to yesterday to get changed. I passed through it to get to the bathroom. I just didn't recognize it in the daylight.

Finding my footing, gaining speed, I scurry down the hallway and turn down the main stairs. The front door is still so far away, but it's already in sight.

There are a lot of stairs, though. I find a way to keep a fast, consistent pace without face-planting, but in my leg, I'm paying for it. It'll cost me time and distance later. Now seems more important, though, and I give it all I've got.

I make it to the foyer, still on my feet, and there, I'm able to accelerate, the front door growing, in my perspective and in every part of me that clings to hope. I'm almost there, and I ready my hands for those locks before I'm technically in the same room.

In my haste, I overshoot things, slide on the carpet runner, and bump against the door with a small but audible thud. It's only a small delay, but it's more pain and more noise. It takes me another second to gather my wits and get my fingers moving.

It's a nice house and all, decently big and well decorated with antiques and artwork. Even so, the locks and bolts seem grossly out of proportion to the value within. Nevertheless, one by one, they all give way from the inside without a key.

I burst onto the porch. A gust of wintry wind pushes back, like Ishmael himself set it loose, just to keep me here.

Without shoes or a coat, it's stupid to carry on, but I do so anyway, slamming the door behind me.

I cross over the creaky porch planks and embark on another treacherous set of stairs. They're old and damp, but at least there are fewer of them. Amazingly enough, I don't slip or stumble.

The front yard is a little rocky and overgrown, but it isn't any worse than the stairs. I hobble through it without interruption.

I avoid the driveway and a groomed path on the right, and enter the woods on the far left, wincing almost immediately when I step on something sharp. It's just a knobby stick, but jeez. Ow!

The next few steps aren't much better. There are so many pebbles and thorns. Plus, my limbs are shaking . . . from the pain or exertion, the cold or fear, or some combination. I can't be that far away from a road. Unfortunately, I think it's Saturday, and it's early—probably about 7:00am—and I'm in the middle of nowhere, regardless.

Who's going to be out this early?

No one.

There'd be no guarantee I'd find quick help even if it was a Monday morning.

The tears start welling in my eyes. A sob bursts out of me, and I hunch over, lean my elbows on my knees, and attempt to catch my breath.

I don't think I can go on, but I can't stop, either. I've already come so far.

Internally, I practically scream at myself to stop crying. And keep going.

Finally, I listen.

On a downward slope, I gain some of my speed back. The pain doesn't have as much of a chance to register. I may be limping a little, but I push through, push through, push through.

At a glance back, I don't see the house anymore. I've taken a few detours, around fallen logs and brambles and such, so I'm not sure I could get back, even if I wanted to. But I don't seem any closer to a road, either.

Am I going in circles? I'm not dumb, so I know to go down the mountainside, but there are places the terrain levels out. Sometimes it dips and then rises again.

It's all untouched, untamed forest, as far as I can see. It's all squishy and damp, too, and a dense fog settles in the lower I go. The branches are cleared of most leaves—there's no shelter, nowhere to hide—and just my luck, it starts to drizzle.

I come to a creek. It's more bad news. There's no quick or easy way around it. It isn't deep, but it is fast moving.

When I try to use the rocks to skip over the creek, the foot on my lousy leg slips off a wobbly rock on my third step. I crash sideways into the water and get a pretty nasty scrape on my elbow. I'm not only soaked, from my useless hemline to my low-dipping bust; I'm also bleeding...

I trudge out of the creek, somehow managing to keep my balance the rest of the way. Climbing up the bank, concentrating on my footing, I'm thrown for another loop when the corner of my eye detects motion. It's coming in hot, seemingly there and then gone. Not sure what it was or where it went, or if it was just a side effect of my terror, I look up, in the direction I still intend to go, and I realize I'm nearly face-to-groin.

I jerk back, falling into the creek, flat on my behind this time.

Ishmael has established himself on the bank's incline, his arms crossed. Ankles too, like he was there the whole time, long enough to get restless and irritable. His expression seems to mirror his pose. The mild amusement I witnessed last night when I was "misbehaving" is nowhere to be seen.

"I truly don't have time for this, Samantha. They'll be home any minute. If they were to see you out here, like this. . ." His gaze rakes down to my cleavage. In a wet, disoriented dress, you would think I would get better results. He is looking but seems underwhelmed. "Well, it's your skin. As they say, boys will be boys..."

My eyes dart to the right. I think I hear a car, and at that, I lurch forward, bringing a splash of water with me. I clutch onto one of his pant legs with both hands and probably ruin both of his shoes in the process. I don't have to work very hard to conjure up fresh tears. "Please, just let me go. I won't say a word. I will never mention that you let me pass."

I don't know if vampires breathe in a conventional fashion, but I'm pretty sure I hear him sigh. "I can't do that."

I stand up. He still has the high ground, but I give him a sad gaze, intending to bring him down a notch, conceptually, at the very least. "You can't or you won't?"

"Won't," he corrects himself.

With a shaky hand, I try to touch his neck.

He effortlessly blocks me and clings to my wrist with a grip that makes my knees buckle. "Don't."

His arm, though invincibly strong, is shaking too, and I don't think it's just from anger. He slowly lifts my arm, and his attention drifts to my bloody elbow, seemingly beyond his control.

"Still hungry, I see." I try to wrench my arm free and of course, I can't.

Before I can waste my energy on another attempt, he has me scooped into his arms, and we're making fast progress up the hill. It's probably a leisurely pace for him, but to a human, it would be a jog only an athlete could accomplish if they weren't carrying the added weight of another body.

He makes a point not to look at me, and focuses instead on his surroundings, like he's expecting trouble at any moment.

"You're afraid," I infer. I'm not sure I'm right, but it's worth the rise I might get out of him if I'm wrong.

"Of whom, exactly?" His temper has cooled. The slight raise of one eyebrow suggests he's in the mood to entertain my analysis.

"Ivy, Prue," I chatter, the cold now taking hold of my whole body. "The dinner and dessert? You waited until they weren't home to play with your food."

He snickers at that. "I am afraid, every day," he admits. "But not of them. I'd like to be free of them, truth be told, and at long last, we've come to an arrangement."

"We're really not so different, are we?" I spot a pine needle along his jawline. Besides the wet shoes, it's probably his only sign of struggle. I reach up to brush it off and he flinches before I succeed. Only when I say, "pine needle," and go in with just my finger and thumb, does he let me touch him again. "Can you really blame me for having the same goal?"

He closes his eyes through what is clearly an intrusion. His skin is cold, which I expected, but he hasn't been out here for very long, so it's still warmer than our surroundings.

"I suppose not," he answers me once my hands are clenched against my ribcage again, doing what little I can to preserve my body heat. "Like you, there's nothing I wouldn't do, or not do as the case may be."

"Are you trying to say you didn't take advantage of me last night? Then please explain the dress on the floor."

A thought passes through his awareness, and it brings about a smirk. "You did that to yourself."

He clearly has a more detailed memory of the night than I do, and I must have made quite the fool of myself. Or at least that's what he wants me to believe...

"And maybe you're lying."

"Why would I lie?"

"You are the bad guy," I tell him, the house now in sight. "You just don't want to be perceived that way. Not by me or anyone like me. The defenseless are a bit of a vulnerability of yours. It may seem like a contradiction, but it makes perfect sense. You like to feel strong and masculine and what better way..."

I hear car doors opening and closing...

"Tempting as you were," Ishmael breaks in, voice low. He skirts around the wooded perimeter and heads to the back of the house. "I had a splitting headache after our little spat last night. I needed only one thing and no, it was not your innocence."

"Hmm..." I mutter. As much as I'd rather not, I believe him. His story corroborates the only memory I have of the encounter.

Still, I don't think he would have passed up a wandering look, an exploring touch, or a leisurely taste in a few unmentionable areas, especially if I was encouraging him in any way.

If it wasn't a sexual experience for him, he would have picked a different artery. Or found me something more comfortable and concealing to wear. If he didn't like me in that way, he would have refilled his wine glass as conveniently as possible, returned me to my shitty bed alone, and locked the door. But no, he tied me up, like a considerate sex fiend, and gave me a good night's sleep and a fair chance to escape.

He's either messing with my head, or he actually cares a little? It's tough to get a good read. And it probably changes depending on the mood of the hour. I should say minute at the pace he moves.

We enter the house through the kitchen and slip into a narrow servant's stairwell. He drifts up three flights with me in his arms, like he has the passage memorized and wings to fly.

Ishmael slows down at a landing and climbs the last few steps like a normal person. We've reached the third floor, and after a turn around a peeling wall, we're in the hallway I'm familiar with.

By now, I've seen most of the house. I understand the layout. There are at least two escape routes, and the one through the kitchen is almost too good to be true. Assuming their staff isn't milling about at all hours, I'd be exposed for only a few steps.

If Ishmael is giving me this insight, there's a reason, and I don't think it's to help, or he would have let me go when he had the chance.

Maybe there's not enough time for it to matter...

With the hand beneath my legs, he opens my attic-prison door, which isn't locked, now that I'm not in it.

He sets me on the floor in the middle of the room and then walks toward my door, his keys already in hand.

I catch him in the doorway with only words. "I suppose this is goodbye. Does it have to be?"

He pauses there and turns back halfway.

When I relax my shoulders, my damp spaghetti straps slip down and I don't correct them. I'm ashamed, and I'm sure that shows, but I force myself to look up—sad, hopeful, eager. I've been told, by one boy at least, that this gaze could melt ice. I have a glacier in front of me, but still, I take the Hail Mary longshot.

"Unfortunately, Samantha," he croons softly after glancing into the stairwell. "We can't both get what we ultimately want, and I'm sorry to say, I will always choose what's best for me."

I nod and lower my head, fix my straps, and move toward my cot, somehow keeping my tears in check. "I guess you've never been in love. I don't know if I envy you or feel bad for you."

"I prefer envy."

I plop on the edge of my mattress, cross my arms, and turn to face the wall as much as I can. "Good choice. It suits you."

I have nothing more to say to him, and he locks the door mere seconds later, apparently done with this conversation, too. It's undoubtedly a delicate situation for him, and it should come as no surprise that I'm not what he ultimately wants. He was only a means to an end for me as well. I'm sure he's well aware of that, and I doubt it did me any favors. Even so, he wins, every round, and I gave him something for nothing—a huge chunk of my dignity, what little remained of it at the start of our "date." I have every right to hate his undead guts. If how shaky and weak I feel is any indication, those guts are probably still bloated with my blood, something else I don't recall giving him permission to take.

The rain is really coming down now. It's loud against my only decent window to the outside—the one with blades strategically placed for desperate fingers.

Not sure what else I can do—I don't even have clothes to change into—I sit facing the window and stare. My eyes tear up from the strain, at first, and then the despair takes over. My face gets so sloppy, and my sobs go so deep, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop.

I startle, nearly slipping from my bed, when I hear the door open so soon after Ishmael closed it. My hope that it's him, returning to save me, is quickly shot dead.

It's Prue and she knows.

No worse, she suspects.

And she's carrying a long rod with spikes on the end. My thong is dangling from the top of it. "My daughter found this on my bed pillow." Her face ripples with a degree of disgust that no human could replicate.

Suddenly, the source of all my moisture goes dry. I don't even have enough phlegm in my throat to take a gulp. Fear of pain, imminent and unavoidable, has a way of doing that.

"You may think this abhorrent excuse for clothing is some kind of armor. . ." While she's glaring at my wet, clingy dress, she stretches out the thong until it tears and flings it across the room. "That it will deliver you from evil . . . but I assure you, it won't."

Her ugly orthopedic shoes pound against the floor as she moves closer. She slaps the rod against her hand with jarring synchroneity.

Cooperating seems to be my only option. "How do you want me?" Maybe I'll avoid losing an eye or a row of teeth. A limb or vital organ. I don't think she wants me dead—yet—but like intimacy, there's a lot of gray area for her to work with and I still intend to walk away, as foolish as this may sound.

"I'm so glad you asked," she replies, genuinely pleased by my submission. It's the happiest I've ever seen her. "We need you presentable. So, on the mattress. Face down. And if you take it like a grown woman, maybe I'll go easy on you."

But probably not...