Page 37 of His Pet

He lunges toward me and wraps his hand around my throat, squeezing as he pins me to the sofa.

I suck in the little gasps of air he allows me, and I claw at his hand. His skin begins to shred and blood oozes from the cuts, but he doesn’t let up. He looks me in the eyes, rage overflowing from his irises. He doesn’t move and the deep breaths he takes make me think he’s trying to control himself.

I stop clawing at his hand and lay my own by my side, hoping he takes it as a sign of good faith. We both got carried away. His temper is what sobers me, but I still haven’t figured out what sobers him.

“I’m not used to people talking to me the way you do,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper. “I don’t like to be disrespected, as I’m sure you don’t. But I’m the one with the upper hand here, you stupid, stupid girl.”

Abruptly, he frees my neck and pushes off me. With quick strides, he goes to the broom closet, pulls out a large roll of heavy-duty plastic, and storms to his bedroom. I rise to my knees and peek over the top of the sofa at the open bedroom door. I can’t see him. He’s rustling around in there, and terror forms deep in my stomach, taking away all the pain and leaving something much, much worse.

Lorenzo returns, and without a word, he grabs me by my arm and drags me to the bedroom. I dig my heels in, but it does little good. He shoves me inside the bedroom and shuts the door behind us.

The rug is rolled up and pushed to the side, and a large piece of plastic takes its place on the floor.

“What are you doing?” I ask, looking at him over my shoulder as he guides me to the plastic. He grabs my shoulders and forces me to my knees.

“Lorenzo?” My throat catches and my body quakes. I meet his eyes, imploring him not to do whatever he’s about to, but his face is blank. Even his eyes are.

He goes to his closet, and I watch as he pulls a hidden panel from the wall. He pulls out something, but his back is to me, and I don’t see what it is. Not until he turns around and starts toward me.

A machete dangles from his fingertips, and his intentions become perfectly clear.

“No!” I screech, falling to my rear and backpedaling frantically until I hit the nightstand. “Stop! Don’t!”

He doesn’t so much as slow down. He walks up to me and drags me back to the plastic by my hair.

“Please, I’m sorry! I swear to God, I’m so sorry!”

He props me up on my knees and crouches behind me. He cups my chin and forces my head up, exposing my neck so much more than I’d like. I sob and try to get away, but he holds me in place.

My sobs turn into wails, and Lorenzo runs his thumb over my cheek.

“Shhh, pretty girl. Calm down.”

I bite my lip to muffle my cries. My chest hurts from holding them in, but I manage. If I let my lip go, I’ll burst, but right now, I’ll do anything to appease him. Anything if it means he’ll let me live.

He releases my chin and glides his fingertips down my neck, over my collar bone, to my shoulder. When he cups my other shoulder, I realize he isn’t holding the machete. I crane my neck, searching for it, as if it alone might sneak up on me.

Lorenzo massages my shoulders, and sobs erupt from me. I cover a hand over my mouth, and Lorenzo takes it and brings it to his lips. His kiss is so gentle, so relaxed. It brings a false sense of security into my mind, wrapping me in a warm blanket and telling me it’s going to be okay. Even though I know it isn’t.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” I blurt when my sobbing eases.

His breath skates over my ears. “Yes, you did.”

I shudder and lean into him, needing his comfort. Needing for this to be another game and to hear his laugh. Hear him mock me.

He sighs and presses his lips to my ears, kissing me before pulling back. “You’re so strange.”

I don’t respond. Even if I knew what he was talking about, I wouldn’t.

He turns me around, and I stare at him, wide-eyed. My breathing is quick, and I know I’m close to hyperventilating, but I can’t slow it down.

His head tilts, and his eyes trail up and down my body. “What are you feeling?”

I’m in too much shock-filled terror to be annoyed when he asks me this, yet again. He’s dead serious. I can see the curiosity in his eyes, hear it in his voice.

“Scared.”

He nods but his eyes narrow. He already knows this, so that isn’t what he’s asking for. I swallow and flick my gaze between the machete on the floor and him.

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