Sheila couldn’t believe that she hadn’t recognized Beatrix with an eyepatch… Bloody ridiculous! Especially considering how their roles had been reversed all those years ago. And now that she had a moment to collect her thoughts—bound, gagged, and packed—she noticed that her captor really didn’t look like she’d aged a day in all this time. Must’ve hit the genetic lottery, that lucky bitch…
To make things worse, Beatrix was strong. Like, really strong. The way she’d bent and twisted Sheila around like a rag doll was… infuriating! That was supposed to be her specialty! How could this leather-clad runt have so much raw strength? She barely had a muscle on her! And yet, that grip of hers was truly fearsome… which was a new sensation for Sheila. She didn’t like it. Her entire rear end ached like she’d picked a fight with an angry pitching machine at the batting cages, and lost.
Something heavy slapped against a wet, gloved hand a few times. Sheila really hoped it wasn’t the thing she thought it was, but oh, it was definitely that. She clenched, desperately wishing that last ball would just mercifully retreat inside without assistance, but it didn’t budge. Couldn’t, she knew, because of the others right behind it, of which she’d lost count. Bea loomed over Sheila, her wooden toy dripping.
“I bet we could fit a few more with a little elbow grease.”
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