Oh My Sweet Potatoes

**Lyra**

Thick, suffocating darkness is the very first thing my mind registers. It presses down on me, heavy and unyielding.

My eyelids feel like they are woven from lead. A brutal, pounding ache throbs right behind my temples, matching the erratic beating of my heart. Every single muscle in my body screams in protest, sore and stiff, as though I have been lying motionless for days. The fog in my brain is thick, making my thoughts spin in circles.

I try to lift my hands to rub the sharp ache away from my eyes.

A sharp, metallic clink echoes in the quiet space. Cold, unforgiving pressure bites into the skin of my wrists, jerking my arms to a dead halt right above my head.

Cuffs?

Panic flares in my chest. I yank my arms upward again. The metal clatters. Thick bands hold fast against my skin. There is zero give. No release.

I force a harsh breath through my nose and command my heavy eyelids to open. The darkness fights to drag me back under, pulling at my consciousness. I focus on the physical world around me, desperate to anchor myself. I refuse to fall back into that black void.

I am lying flat on my back. The surface beneath me is impossibly soft, cradling my aching spine. I twist my hips, attempting to slide my legs down the mattress. Another sharp tug stops me short. Tight bands circle my ankles, locking my feet into place.

A frustrated, ragged moan escapes my lips. This is just brilliant.

My head feels like a balloon packed tight with crushed ice. The burning sensation behind my eyes bleeds into the raw, stinging friction on my wrists as I yank against the restraints one more time. I thrash my head side to side, trying to shake away the intense pressure building in my skull.

Where am I? What happened?

I pause, letting my racing heart settle for just a fraction of a second to let my body readjust. My mouth is parched. Swallowing feels like dragging sandpaper down my throat, like I just ran a marathon through a sun-baked desert. I try to gather some saliva, but my mouth is bone dry. It does nothing to quench the thirst.

Then, the memories hit me. They crash into my fragile consciousness like a tidal wave.

My eyes snap wide open. Oh my sweet potatoes. I remember it all.

The restaurant. The kitchen. Making those hamburgers for the bosses. Being summoned to the private dining room. The four of them standing there. Men sculpted from cold, hard marble, radiating immense wealth and lethal danger. Enzo’s dark, commanding eyes. His voice declaring that they owned the town, the land, and now... me.

I remember turning to run. The heavy oak door. The massive arm wrapping around my waist. The sharp, stinging pinch in the side of my neck. The dark whisper against my ear.

Oh, good golly mashed potatoes, they drugged me. Those monsters injected me with something and stole me away.

My chest heaves as my breathing turns frantic. I yank against the restraints holding my arms. I pull with every ounce of strength left in my sluggish veins, fighting like a madwoman. The heavy chains rattle against solid wood, mocking my efforts. They do not budge. The struggle drains the tiny reserve of energy I just found, forcing me to close my eyes and stop.

If I cannot break free, I need to understand my cage.

The mattress beneath me is a plush cloud. A heavy, warm fabric covers my lower half, locking in the heat like a cocoon. If circumstances were different, I would beg to know where to buy a glorious bed like this. My head rests on a pillow encased in smooth, cool silk.

I turn my face slightly, brushing my cheek against my shoulder. A familiar, soothing scent fills my nose. Vanilla. A warm, sweet fragrance reminiscent of fresh baked cupcakes on a Sunday afternoon. It is a scent I have always loved. It clings to my skin, easing the sharpest edge of the piercing pain behind my eyes. The endearing fragrance grounds me, lifting a fraction of the heavy fog still clouding my brain.

Blinking past the sting, I force my eyes open again. A soft, amber glow bathes the expansive room.

I take in my surroundings. I am trapped in the center of a massive king-size bed. The frame is constructed from deep, rich mahogany wood, thick and imposing. The entire suite is decorated in earthy browns with dark red accents. It screams old money and ruthless power.

I crane my neck to the right. A massive stone fireplace dominates the side wall, flanked by towering mahogany bookshelves stuffed with volumes. Two oversized brown leather loveseats face the hearth, their edges detailed with intricate wood carvings. Burgundy red accent pillows rest on the cushions, matching the luscious red carpet framing the space. In the center sits a large glass and mahogany coffee table, holding a crystal vase bursting with at least six dozen fresh red roses. Two vintage Tiffany lamps cast the warm amber light from the end tables.

Straining my neck further, I look toward the far right corner. Thick, closed curtains are drawn tight across the windows. They are the same deep crimson as the pillows, blocking out any hint of the outside world.

I roll my head forward again. A heavy red door sits flush against the wall across from the foot of the bed. Next to it stretches a long mahogany dresser matching the bed frame, carrying the same intricate carvings along the edges. A massive flat-screen television is mounted to the wall. Two more closed red doors line the left wall, most likely leading to an ensuite bathroom and a walk-in closet.

I close my eyes briefly to take a steadying breath, letting my head sink deeper into the silk pillow.

When I open my eyes, my gaze drifts straight up.

Are you kidding me?

Spanning the entire length and width of the ceiling directly above the bed is a full-size mirror.

I stare at my own reflection. The image above me triggers a deep, sickening wave of horror.

A burgundy red silk sheet and matching duvet cover my body from the chest down. But that is not what makes my stomach drop.

My hair. My tangled hair is neatly woven into a thick, precise braid resting over my shoulder. I never braid my hair.

Someone touched me. While I was dead to the world, unconscious and limp, someone sat on this bed, ran their hands through my hair, and styled it. The sheer violation of that intimate act sends a cold shudder down my spine.

The terror deepens as I trace my reflection upward. The restraints on my arms are thick brown bands, bolted to solid metal chains that anchor straight into a post on the heavy mahogany headboard. The thick bands bite into my skin, holding my wrists close together above my head. They are fastened so tight that making any movement with my hands is impossible. There is no way I can reach my fingers to the buckles to unlock the straps.

But the most shocking, crushing revelation hits me when I look back down the length of my reflection.

I am almost completely nude.

The cold realization sinks in as my bare legs and torso rub against the silk sheets. I am stripped down to nothing but my undergarments. The clothes I wore to work are gone. I jerk my lower appendages, desperate to cover myself, but the thick bands lock my ankles to the sturdy posts. I am spread out. Restrained at all four points.

I have no idea what time it is. I do not even know what day it is. They seriously kidnapped me. I am locked in a strange room, bound to a bed, practically naked, and there is no doubt that heavy red door is locked tight.

I must get out of here. These men are dangerous, incredibly wealthy, and terrifyingly powerful.

Why me? The question spirals in my mind, frantic and desperate. Why would they want someone so plain, so ordinary? These men have to be massive players. They must have a new woman in their beds every single night, supermodel-worthy women who would beg for their attention. Why me?!

A hot tear escapes the corner of my eye. It tracks a warm path down my cheek. And then another falls. And another.

As much as I want to stay strong, as much as I refuse to let anyone see me as weak, I have to admit the truth to myself. Right now, I am scared. No, not just scared. I am petrified to my very core. I do not know what is going to happen to me, and the isolation wraps around my throat like a vice. I feel so alone.

I look up at my tear-stained reflection in the ceiling mirror and let myself silently cry. There is no rescue coming. I cannot do a single thing until I am released from this brutal bondage.

My silent tears quickly morph into a hot, burning frustration.

I bare my teeth and start pulling at the restraints once again. I pull and pull. The metal chains clank loudly against the mahogany bed boards, a chaotic symphony of my desperate struggle.

Nothing gives. The solid wood does not creak. The thick bands do not tear.

After a while, the magical burst of frantic energy evaporates. I am thoroughly exhausted. I collapse back onto the mattress, my chest heaving as I suck in ragged gulps of air. My wrists and ankles throb with a dull, bruised ache from the brutal friction. My eyes are swollen, puffy, and stinging from the tears.

There is no fight left in my muscles. I have no other energy except to tilt my head back and let out a raw, guttural scream of pure frustration.

"UHHHH!"

The sound bounces off the walls, swallowed by the thick curtains. I huff again, staring at my horrible predicament in the mirror above.

I do not know how long I lie there, staring at my bound reflection. Eventually, the heavy remnants of the drug begin to pull at my consciousness again. I feel my eyelids getting impossibly heavy.

I stop fighting the pull and allow myself to drift back into a deep, dark slumber.

Maybe, just maybe, I can wake up next time, and all of this will have been a terrible dream.