My Boss's Bali Massage Trap - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
You are reading My Boss's Bali Massage Trap, Chapter 6: Chapter 6. Read more chapters of My Boss's Bali Massage Trap.
"Get inside—now!"
Vincent Lowell's grip was iron as he hauled me from the car, my wrists burning as the rough rope bit into my skin. He dragged me toward the house like I was nothing more than a ragdoll.
The abandoned villa loomed ahead, its broken windows and sagging porch whispering of decay. The moment we stepped inside, the air turned thick with dust and something darker—something that made my stomach twist.
"Mr. Lowell, please!" My voice cracked. "I'll do anything—I'll work for you, just let me go!"
He didn't even glance at me. His fingers dug into my arm as he pulled me deeper into the house, past peeling wallpaper and shattered furniture. Then, with a grunt, he shoved aside an old cabinet—revealing a hidden door.
A gust of icy air rushed out, carrying the scent of damp earth and something metallic. I sneezed violently, my whole body shaking.
No. No, no, no. If he took me through that door, I was dead.
I twisted, trying to bolt, but the rope yanked tight, sending white-hot pain through my arms. Vincent jerked me back with a single brutal pull and shoved me inside.
Stairs. Dark, narrow, leading down into blackness.
I dug my heels in, but he kicked me hard in the back. My scream tore through the air as I tumbled down, landing hard on concrete.
Gasping, I pushed myself up—and froze.
A portrait. Black-and-white, eerie in the flickering candlelight. A shrine sat beneath it, incense curling into the air.
Then my foot hit something.
I looked down—and screamed.
Bones. A skull, hollow-eyed, grinning up at me.
My legs gave out. The ropes burned as I thrashed, blood slick on my wrists.
"You think you can run?" Vincent's voice slithered down the stairs. He stepped into view, holding a small white box.
"I don't know your fiancée! I swear!" I sobbed.
His lips curled. "Oh, but you do." He pointed to the portrait. "Look at your right eye. It's hers."
I couldn't bring myself to look.
"Eight years ago," he murmured, "foreign tourists butchered my Isabella. Tore out her eyes." His voice dropped to a whisper. "She visits me in dreams, begging for them back."
His fingers traced the box. "Five years ago, I found the left eye. And now... yours."
His laughter filled the basement, sharp and unhinged.
I was going to die here.
Vincent Lowell's grip was iron as he hauled me from the car, my wrists burning as the rough rope bit into my skin. He dragged me toward the house like I was nothing more than a ragdoll.
The abandoned villa loomed ahead, its broken windows and sagging porch whispering of decay. The moment we stepped inside, the air turned thick with dust and something darker—something that made my stomach twist.
"Mr. Lowell, please!" My voice cracked. "I'll do anything—I'll work for you, just let me go!"
He didn't even glance at me. His fingers dug into my arm as he pulled me deeper into the house, past peeling wallpaper and shattered furniture. Then, with a grunt, he shoved aside an old cabinet—revealing a hidden door.
A gust of icy air rushed out, carrying the scent of damp earth and something metallic. I sneezed violently, my whole body shaking.
No. No, no, no. If he took me through that door, I was dead.
I twisted, trying to bolt, but the rope yanked tight, sending white-hot pain through my arms. Vincent jerked me back with a single brutal pull and shoved me inside.
Stairs. Dark, narrow, leading down into blackness.
I dug my heels in, but he kicked me hard in the back. My scream tore through the air as I tumbled down, landing hard on concrete.
Gasping, I pushed myself up—and froze.
A portrait. Black-and-white, eerie in the flickering candlelight. A shrine sat beneath it, incense curling into the air.
Then my foot hit something.
I looked down—and screamed.
Bones. A skull, hollow-eyed, grinning up at me.
My legs gave out. The ropes burned as I thrashed, blood slick on my wrists.
"You think you can run?" Vincent's voice slithered down the stairs. He stepped into view, holding a small white box.
"I don't know your fiancée! I swear!" I sobbed.
His lips curled. "Oh, but you do." He pointed to the portrait. "Look at your right eye. It's hers."
I couldn't bring myself to look.
"Eight years ago," he murmured, "foreign tourists butchered my Isabella. Tore out her eyes." His voice dropped to a whisper. "She visits me in dreams, begging for them back."
His fingers traced the box. "Five years ago, I found the left eye. And now... yours."
His laughter filled the basement, sharp and unhinged.
I was going to die here.
End of My Boss's Bali Massage Trap Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to My Boss's Bali Massage Trap book page.