She tries to wiggle free but it's no use

Velvet Vixen grits her teeth and starts to twist her wrist—slowly, deliberately—testing the tension in the vines. They’re elastic, not rigid. There’s some give. If she can just angle her thumb, maybe wedge her wrist against the wood, maybe—

“Nngh… come on…”

She strains. Her body gleams with leftover glaze, the warm greenhouse air making her flush even more under the lights. Muscles tense. Wrists twist.

Snap.

A vine tightens.

Harder.

She winces as the restraint yanks her arm flat against the crossbar again.

“Damn it…”

Then she hears it.

A soft slither.

Velvet Vixen’s eyes go wide.

“Oh no.”

Behind her, several of the plant’s tendrils begin to shift—actively now, not just swaying in ambient light. They weave upward along the back of the fence, curling through the slats, snaking toward her legs.

Some are tipped with blossoms that pulse with glowing nectar. Others ripple like muscles beneath bark-like skin, slow and hungry.

One tendril slinks along the ivy, brushing lightly across her booted ankle. Velvet Vixen jerks.

“Nope. Nope nope nope—”

She struggles again, but it’s no use. She’s still bound tight.

Another tendril curls along the back of her thigh, tracing the glazed surface of her costume like it’s tasting her through contact.

Hummmmmm...

The plant purrs.

And Velvet Vixen is still very much the centerpiece.