My own words make my stomach churn.
I’ll never beanykind of chef.I gave it all up to save Belinda.
And while the thought saddens me, still I have no regrets.
“Eat it,” he says.
“No.”
“You can do what you’ve been doing, Daniela.Eating slowly, as if stretching out this meal will save you.”His eyes darken.“It won’t.”
He’s right, of course.Time is the only weapon I have right now.
He stands.Smooth.Unhurried.As if we’re savoring a gourmet tasting menu in the finest restaurant instead of a basement mausoleum.
He takes a match, holds it between his fingers and stares at it.
Then he strikes it, and the flame hisses to life.
He lights the fourth candle, its flame wobbling in the stale air like it’s struggling to breathe.
The last candle.The last one until the explosion that’ll turn us both into red mist.
I swallow hard, forcing the bile back down.He doesn’t need to see me gag.
He wants performance.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.
“Final course,” he announces softly.“Then we ascend.”
Ascend.
Cute way of sayingdetonate.
He steps away to the counter against the wall.
I slide my hand down my thigh, heart hammering.Sweat prickles my lower spine.
My fingers find leather.Cool metal.
The sapphire knife.
The one he gave me.
The one I took when he said I could choose any item in his kitchen.
I’ve never actually used it in a kitchen.I always imagined the first thing I’d cut with it would be something tender—a filet, a ripe peach, a cake cooled just right.
Instead, it’s going to be him.
I pull the fabric of my skirt up just enough so I can wrap my fingers around the handle, breath stopping in my lungs.
Just holding it steadies me.Like steel is flowing up my arm and into my bones.
It was always meant for this.
I retrieve it and lay it in my lap, fixing my skirt over it so it’s hidden.
