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Strong arms wrapped around me, a wall of muscle keeping me from moving, Antonio's low voice was all I could focus on. It was quiet, meant only for my ears. "You can do this, Tatiana. You're strong enough."
"No," I wailed against his chest, "I can't."
Gripping my chin, he forced my face upwards to meet his hard look. "You are." A low growl, "You are, okay?"
I could only stare up at him, my heart still pounding so hard, a suffocating feeling climbing up my chest and throat.
"You can," he continued. "You're strong. That's the only way you're going to get through this. You know that. Be brave, for yourself. For Honey."
At the sound of her name, I stilled.
He was right. I had to be strong. For her.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice softer.
When I didn't answer, his hand on my chin gripped me tighter. "Say you understand, Tatiana."
I nodded, my voice wobbling as I answered, "I understand." He was right, he was right. I had to be good. I had to be strong, for her.
He gave me a minute to calm myself before glancing over to Manuel, giving him a nod.
"Show her to her seat," the cold, familiar voice responded.
Gritting my teeth, I forced my feet to move, to follow beside Antonio as he took me to a chair, pulled it out and waited for me to sit.
I sat, gaining control over my senses, or, at least, pretending to. I forced my lips upwards in a feral smile, then looked my worst enemy in the eyes, ready for battle. I will kill you.
* * *
A lot of society's psychopaths have learned to blend in so well, that it has been shocking when certain serial killers are brought to light because they'd been such pillars of the community.
But at six foot five inches, Manuel could never blend in, not even if he wanted to. He was not only tall but large, with bulging muscles that he used to his advantage.
Some say that he was handsome, despite the large scar on his face and neck that looked like melted wax, but it was all I could see because I knew the truth of how he'd gotten it.
When he was young, a fire started, and ended up taking out four houses on the block, killing two people.
Only I knew that he'd been the one to intentionally start that fire because he hated his nanny.
He was trying to kill her. At six years old.
And, as I sat across from him, I saw through his charming smile, meant to disarm, and instead knew he was pleased by my reaction to him.
He'd forgone his usual suit coat and tie, instead wearing only his signature red, button up shirt with the collar open.
There, lined in thick pink, was another scar, slashed across his throat.
When my eyes landed on it, pride filled my chest, knowing I'd been the one to put that there.
He deliberately showed it off for me--like a badge of honor. He'd survived.
All I thought about was the pain he must have gone through to recover from something like that, and that made me happy.
Besides, it had given me a freedom I could only dream of, a chance to escape him, until now.
"Where's Honey," I said, as soon as a plate was placed before me. The succulent smell made me want to gag.
Manuel's lips pressed together in a firm line, and I had the feeling that he'd expected something else from me.
