The Endocrine Tyranny
D.J. Cockburn
Gareth stared out of his kitchen window. He didn’t pretend to be riveted by the pigeons bustling between Nottingham’s rooftops. He knew their only attraction was being at the opposite end of his apartment to the bedroom. He cursed himself for a fool and poured some orange juice into a glass.
It took almost as much courage to slide back the bolt he’d crudely installed as to open the door. Mary turned her head to look at him and he looked back at the five-foot-two, ginger-haired woman. He looked for the fear or accusation he would expect in any other woman he had handcuffed to a bed, but her face remained as devoid of expression as when he brought her here three days before. She turned her gaze to the ceiling.
