Wiggle Free

Velvet Vixen takes a long breath through her nose and closes her eyes, channeling every ounce of calm and focus she has left. Her heart is still racing, but now it’s with determination.

This is what she’s read about. The great heroines always escape the trap. Always turn the tide.

“Okay... puzzle brain, don’t fail me now,” she murmurs against the gag.

She starts by flexing her wrists—slow, steady movements to find where the knots tighten, where the give is. Her gloves are smooth, satin-slick, and that helps. The rope bites in, but not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel real.

She twists.

She turns.

She angles her hands and pulls.

One of the knots loosens just a hair.

A little more...

Her arm burns.

Her fingers scream.

Then—yes.

Her right wrist slips free.

Velvet Vixen lets out a victorious snort into her gag and immediately reaches over to start tugging at the knots holding her other arm. They come undone faster now—then her waist, then her thighs.

Bit by bit, she sits up.

Her corset groans, her boots clunk against the edge of the cart, but she finally yanks off the gag and tosses it to the floor with a gasping laugh.

“Who's the costume bimbo now?”

She hops off the cart—nearly stumbles, because of course—but catches herself on the supply shelf. Her legs are wobbly. Her cape is wrinkled. She’s sweaty, flustered, and possibly still blushing.

But she’s free.

And Cleo Capone is about to rob another armored car.

“Not on my glitter-covered watch,” she growls.

She cracks her knuckles. The corset cracks back. She winces.

“Alright. Time for a real dramatic entrance.”