Nope

Velvet Vixen throws herself into the fight.

Her boots scuff against the lounge’s edge as she kicks. Her arms twist, wrists flex, shoulders ache as she tries to wrench herself free. She wiggles, arches, shifts her weight left, then right. Her cape bunches beneath her. The silk ropes creak—taunting her—but they don’t budge.

“Mmmph! Mmmf!”

She jerks her legs, hoping for some kind of slack, but Cleo’s knots are cruel in their elegance. They don’t pinch. They don’t bruise. But they do hold.

The more she thrashes, the more perfectly snug they feel.

She flops back onto the chaise with a huff through her gag, chest heaving, hair slightly tousled, ropes still pristine.

She really tied me like I was meant to be here...

The lounge cushion beneath her shifts slightly, but no leverage comes from it. There’s no wiggle room to exploit, no knot she can reach, no sharp edge nearby.

And all she’s done is waste energy.

The jazz record skips once, then continues playing. A soft saxophone hums through the air like it's mocking her. Somewhere in the next room, a closet door creaks open. A zipper slides down.

Cleo’s changing.

And Kendrick?

Still bound.

Still gagged.

Still helpless.