Page 35

"Don't look at me like that." His brows turn into a frown, but I don't look away.

"Like what?" I don't change my face; he can go to hell.

His fist beats down onto the wooden desk, and my body jolts at the sound. His eyes darken, face flat. My heart is in my throat, eyes wide as we stare into each other's gaze.

"You'll learn, Amora. You'll learn my rules. You've already seen what happens to those who disobey." His voice shakes, his fist still pressed into the wood.

"Comply or die."

I try to swallow, but my mouth is so dry, my throat raw. Comply or die. That's his rule. He straightens up, fixing his tie and guiding a hand through his hair, putting it back in place.

Neither of us speaks, and for a moment, his eyes finally leave my skin. I finally feel the smallest fraction of relief.

"Tell me about yourself, Amora."

"Like what?" I look away, glancing at the tanks. The snakes stare straight back. It doesn't matter where I look, I'm being watched.

"Your life, your family."

I swallow, my throat tight. My thoughts drift to my family, to Rosa. I picture her somewhere else, somewhere with light and fresh air, maybe even safe. My eyes sting. A single tear slips down my cheek before I can wipe it away. He notices, his brows pulling together for a moment.

Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask. Fuck. I let the question slip, unable to swallow it anymore. "My sister was taken with me. Do you know what happened to her?" My legs shake under the desk, and I press my hands together, squeezing my fingers so they won't tremble. I dig my nails in deep. Don't cry. Don't, Amora.

"A sister?" He raises his brow with a smile on his lips, his teeth grazing his bottom lip.

I sit motionless for a second, my heart beating in my ears.

I can't help but feel I've just messed up big time. He didn't know about her, but now he does.

"Her name?" He opens a desk drawer, pulls out a thick folder, and licks his finger before flipping through the pages, slow and precise.

"Rosa." I force her name out, the sound weird, almost like it wasn't even my own voice speaking.

He nods, his hands gripping the folder, his eyes flicking from me to the page. The smirk never leaves his face.

With every flick of the page, my heart skips a beat. I don't know what will hurt more—if she isn't in there or if she is. If he has her held somewhere, forcing her to comply with whatever sick demands he asks, or if she's with someone else who's worse than him.

I catch a glimpse of some of the names as he turns the pages. Hundreds of them. Each one a person. Each one someone's Rosa, someone's sister, someone's daughter. I look away. I can't think about that right now. I can barely hold my own grief together, let alone carry theirs, too.

I shouldn't have asked. I shouldn't.

He keeps flipping, his brow creased, turning past line after line of names. My hands tighten in my lap. He finally shuts the folder, the sound sharp, and puts it away.

"No Rosa."

I almost sob with relief, but I choke it back. She's not here. Not in his system. He doesn't have her—but then…that means she's still with Derek. Her scream still haunts my mind, every waking moment. He still has her, and there's no way for me to find her.

Don't think about what he's doing. She's safe. She's safe at home, in our flat. In our own little space.

I pray the lie will keep the evil thoughts from spiralling. Pray they'll allow me some small moments of relief, but they don't. It's creeping in fast, crawling from the dark corners of my mind ready to pounce.

A phone rings. My eyes dart to the desk as the screen flashes. His eyes follow, rolling at the sight of the name. In this moment, I've never been more thankful for technology. He snatches it in his hand, raising it to his ear as he turns away. He doesn't speak, not right away. I just watch.

"Clean her up and put her back in the cells," he snaps, his tone cold. I study him more, the way he walks, how he carries himself with confidence. His suit pristine, hair immaculately in place. He's changed his clothes—there's no blood or remnants of Hailee's death. Everything is fresh.

My eyes scan his body—he's toned. Muscular, but not in the bodybuilder kind of way. The way of a man who loves to take care of himself. Which makes sense; he seems like the control freak type. His jaw is chiselled, eyes dark. He's attractive—the kind your friends would squeal about if you sent his picture into the group chat—and it forces me to wonder: Why would he do this? There's no way he struggles with women. His words ooze confidence bordering on arrogance. He's attractive, more so than most men in our city. So why? Why does he kidnap women? Maybe it's the chase. The thrill of taking something that doesn't belong to him. I snap my eyes away, returning my gaze to the carpet. It's too sick to think about that someone could enjoy something so awful.

"Take the other to medical, and then return her, too." His voice is colder.