WARNING: This story contains disturbing and sometimes violent material. If violence bothers you, please do not read this story.
"Please..." he whispered, his angelic face wet with tears. "Please let me go. Please. I won't tell anyone, I promise."
The basement was cold and damp, and he was shivering. She wanted to touch him, to reassure him, to let him know that she meant him no harm. She reached out to place her hand over his, and he flinched, pulling away from her instinctively. She smiled sweetly.
"I'm not going to hurt you," she cooed in her most comforting voice, and she reached again for his hand. This time, he didn't move. She stroked his hand gently, tentatively, so thrilled to finally be touching him, her excitement building.
"Then… what do you want?" he pleaded desperately, his voice cracking. "Why can't I leave?"
He noticed that the expression on her face had changed slightly, and although she was still smiling, he seemed increasingly frightened.
"Well," she whispered and winked at him conspiratorially, "I just want to play."
Disclaimer: All things "Twilight" belong to Stephanie Meyer. "Trunk Boy," however, is all mine.