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She releases a shuddery breath. “Oh, god, please.”
“This is entirely up to you.”
“I don’t know what you want from me!” She’s breathing so fast that I wouldn’t be surprised if she hyperventilates. Her eyes are glued to the blade, and a high-pitched whine works its way out of her. “Please, don’t do this.”
I barely hear her. Not when my entire awareness is focused solely on the way her flesh reacts to the steel threatening to pierce it. I can’t take my eyes from it, her soft, supple breast and the light gleaming from the knife.
“What am I supposed to do about this?” I look up into her eyes, pleased to find them wide and brimming with fear. “How do we handle this?”
“I don’t know. Please, I don’t know. Why are you doing this to me? I’ve never hurt you. I’ve never hurt anyone!”
“Now you’re boring me.” Finally, I reach for her nipple.
“Oh, my god,” she whispers.
“You don’t need both of these, do you?”
She flinches away from the tip of the blade, now circling her nipple, her high-pitched whining fading to the background of my awareness in favor of the blood rushing in my ears. The power of holding her in my hands like this, knowing I could change the course of her life with a single flick of the blade. She would never fucking forget me, would she? And every time she looked down at herself, saw herself in a mirror or watched a man’s expression turn to one of horror at her mangled flesh, she would remember how she screwed with me. Lied to me, kept me dangling like I’m some sort of fucking joke.
“Set up another meeting!”
I pause, looking up at her. “Excuse me?”
“Ask for another meeting. Tell him…” Her eyes dart around. “Tell him you’re not happy about what he did, and now you want him to make it right by meeting for real, face-to-face. Tell him it’s his last chance or something like that.”
“You believe he would respond positively to an ultimatum?” I’m close to sitting back, her response having caught me off guard.
“Do you have any other options?” When I lift an eyebrow, she recoils. “I’m just saying.”
“And this wouldn’t be an attempt at getting me killed, would it?” I add the slightest pressure and marvel at the speck of blood that seeps against the silver blade.
“No! Oh, please, don’t hurt me!” She moans, and it’s the sweetest sound.
“Because it sounds a lot like you’re suggesting I give it another try since your father wasn’t successful in killing me the first time around.”
“No, no, that’s not it. I swear. Please, believe me.” She hangs her head and weeps—and the sound grows louder, almost gusty, once I pull the blade away. Instantly, she closes the shirt and curls into a ball, arms around her knees, her chin tucked close to her chest.
I can’t bring myself to take pleasure when there are too many questions fighting for control in my tired brain. Is this all an act? Is she plotting behind those tears?
If I’m not careful, this supposedly simple mission is going to drive me out of my head.
13
ALICIA
At least I’m not tied up anymore.
It’s amazing how something as small as that can end up meaning so much. Is this how Stockholm Syndrome develops? Things are so bad at first that when they get incrementally better, the person being held captive is so grateful they end up becoming attached to the person who took them?
That must be what’s going on now, and all I can think is that I have to stop it. I can’t let myself start thinking about him as anything more than a monster. And he wonders why I can’t relax around him? Then he goes and pulls some psychotic nightmarish shit like he did earlier.
I guess it’s better that I don’t understand. If I did, it would mean I was no better than him.
He’s left me alone since then and hasn’t demanded I go back to my room, but I returned there anyway if only to be away from him. He’s too unpredictable. I can hardly breathe when we’re in the same room; his energy is so intense, so suffocating. How am I supposed to live in the same house with this man when I don’t know if he’s going to be sweet or pull a knife on me? We can’t even have a conversation without things getting violent.
Still, I can only hide in the bedroom for so long. Especially when my stomach won’t stop growling. I haven’t been given free access to the house or anything like that, but he didn’t tell me anything was off-limits either. Should I take a chance and see if I’m allowed to eat? Sheesh, how dehumanizing is this whole situation?
Eventually, hunger wins out over apprehension, and I have no choice but to tiptoe out of the room and down the stairs, listening hard for any sounds coming from elsewhere in the house. It’s quiet, but that doesn’t give me any comfort. If anything, now I’m wondering what’s coming next. Is he planning something? Waiting like a snake in the grass, looking for any opportunity to strike? I find myself peering over my shoulder left and right at every turn I make in the house. When I reach the kitchen, I’m a nervous ball of energy.
