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“Lies.” I walk to my bag, pull out a craft knife, and return to his side.
Roman closes his eyes and sighs. “You want to kill me, baby?”
“Maybe I do.” I position the blade at his throat. “Maybe that’s the only way to force you to tell the truth.”
“When you were just a photo and a name, I wanted to kill you,” he says. “But I changed my mind.”
“Eyes on me,” I order, using his own words against him. “Look at me when I’m threatening your life.”
His eyes snap open.
“When?” I dig the sharp point into his skin.
“You’re spiraling. We’re going around in circles.”
“Only because you keep feeding me lies. When did you decide to spare my life?”
“When I talked you off that ledge and carried you into the room.” He swallows. “You were vulnerable. Human. Scared of going through what Capello made me endure.”
The lies hit me like a punch to the throat, and I laugh, the sound bitter. “Where did you learn to sound so honest? Admit it. You kept me alive because I was your golden goose.”
“No,” he rasps.
“Fuck you, Roman. And fuck your bullshit.”
I carve an L on his chest in the space between his pectoral muscles, drawing a thin stream of blood. “Drop the mask.”
“There is no mask,” he says through clenched teeth.
The next letter I carve is an I. “Tell me how you fucked with my mind.”
Roman flares his nostrils. “The only direct lie I told you was that Dominic was sent by your ex. Everything else was based on the truth.”
“Stop playing word games.” I carve an A. “Tell me how you tricked me into loving you.”
“If you love me, then it’s because I fucking love you,” he yells.
“Liar!” I carve the R. There’s so much blood on his chest that it pools down to his neck and fills the room with the scent of copper.
Nausea washes over my senses, making my vision blur with tears. My stomach churns, and my mouth fills with saliva. I twist to the side and dry heave before finally bending over to vomit.
Roman yells my name, but his voice is muffled by my retching. I gag, cough, and spit out the sour bile. When I’m done, I stagger around the room and gather his clothes.
“Baby, you’re sick. Please, let me help you.”
Huffing a laugh, I stuff his clothes in a bag, along with his wallet, phone, and shoes. “Yeah, I’m sick alright. Sick for ever listening to you. Sick for thinking you might admit the truth and try to make amends.”
“Alright.” His voice shakes. “I’ll tell you?—”
“Too. Fucking. Late.”
After grabbing the art supplies, I slip the car keys in my pocket, open the door, and toss the two bags out into the hallway.
Without sparing another glance at Roman’s bound and naked form, I switch off the light and plunge him into the darkness.
“The table is welded to the floor. You can struggle all you want, and it won’t topple over,” I say.
“Emberly,” he growls. “If you leave me here?—”
