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Steven emerges holding two glasses of red wine. He hands her one. She looks at it and wipes the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. I can tell from the expression on her face that she does not like the wine, but he stands over her and watches until she drinks.
She takes a sip.
He keeps staring.
She takes another.
When she tries to put it down, he tweaks his finger beneath it and makes her keep drinking. He pushes harder. She can’t drink fast enough. The wine spills down her chin and drips onto the towel. She coughs.
He stops.
He takes the glass away and puts it down with a thud on the table. Then he points to the stain on the towel she’s wearing. His face darkens.
She is shaking.
He stoops down, stares at her, his face barely a breath away from hers. “You fat, miserable, frigid, whore,” he spits.
She swallows hard, almost choking on her tears.
He takes hold of her upper arm and squeezes tight, pinching her soft flesh with his large fingers. She winces, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he uses the other hand to unfasten his belt.
Rage swells inside me. It beats a savage rhythm in the crevices of my ribcage, straining, cracking, exploding.
Oh, fuck, no.
I might be able to bite down on the urge to rip him apart when he’s talking down to her and belittling her. But this?
Fuck. No.
I move to the front door and rap hard with a clenched fist.
It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to jerk it open and tear him apart in front of her.
But I’m smarter than that.
I hear him mumble for her to stay where she is. Not to move.
He pulls open the door. His eyes widen. But my hand is around his throat before he can utter a single word.
I should have done this a long time ago.
As I drag him into the shadows, I whisper, “You’re about to learn an important lesson, Steven. Are you ready?”
“You’re the guy who came into Luna’s shop. The professor.” Steven, despite being tied to a chair, looks indignant. Pissed off. As if he’s preparing to lodge a formal complaint with my superiors at the university.
There’s a cut on his head. It’s bleeding but he smells acrid. The opposite of something I’d want in my mouth.
“I’m glad you remember me.” I turn to my desk and pace over to it. There’s a letter opener positioned neatly beside my large, open, notebook. It hasn’t been used for centuries. I pick it up and turn it over in my hand, pressing the tip of my index finger to the end of the blade.
Steven watches me. He still doesn’t look scared.
I tut and put down the knife. Then pace over to the fireplace. It’s lit, as always. Crackling in the grate. Above it hangs a sword. A falcata blade I won in a card game three-hundred years ago.
Luna’s boyfriend raises an eyebrow as if he’s distinctly unimpressed.
The falcata is short with a curved blade. It doesn’t look particularly intimidating, but it is sharp enough to split a man in half with just one slice. Especially when it’s wielded by a vampire.
“You won’t get away with this,” he says. The upper-class lilt in his voice makes me want to behead him right now.
