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My mouth drops when I realize.
That book wasn’t written by someone who was held hostage here ...
It washisbook.
I try to form the words of an apology, but they leave my mind when he takes a knife from his belt. “Mikhail, please!” I shout with tears filling my eyes. Worry snakes around my heart, tightening every second that passes.
“So she does have manners,” he whispers to me.
He brings the knife to my chest. I stare at him, wondering if he’ll actually hurt me. Instead, he tears through the thin shirt I’m wearing until my chest is bare in front of him. I want to slam my eyes shut, but I can’t. If he wants to hurt me, I want him to watch. I want him to feel my eyes boring into his while he hurts me. If I’m going to feel nothing but pain, he will watch me struggle. Maybe then I’ll see a shred of remorse.
I’ve never felt so exposed in my life. All Mikhail does is threaten and embarrass me.
“I have been kind to you, Sloane,” he says, walking into the kitchen. “I’ve given you my trust. I’ve done a lot for you that I’d never do for anyone else.” He lights the gas stove. From this distance, I can see him bringing the knife to the flame.
I crumble under the weight of my panic and try to gulp down my fear. I try to control my breathing, but it only comes out unsteady.
He’s going to kill me.
“I’m not here for games, Sloane. I told you how it was going to be, and you chose to defy me. I’m not a man of useless words.” He approaches me with a dark look. In a weak attempt to prepare myself for the endless pain I’m about to suffer, I clench my teeth together with a pressure so strong my teeth could shatter.
As I grip the arms of the chair, I feel the heat of the blade near my skin. “You won’t do it,” I mutter.
A wicked smile crosses his face. “You’re making weak assumptions, little one.”
“Am I though? If that was your notebook, you wouldn’t hurt someone the same way you were hurt.”
Something inside him flips. A look crosses his face, and I can’t tell what it is. Guilt? Anger? Dread?
“Stop while you’re ahead. Watch your fucking mouth.”
“Or what? Hurt me. Do it!” I scream at him.
His anger wears off on me. It’s toxic. I want to challenge him. I want to see if he’s capable of following through on his word. I know if he were to hurt me, I’d never forgive him. It’s hard enough to look at him now.
He brushes my hair out of my face with a calm look. “Yell at me again, Sloane,” he says with a calm voice. My eyes search his.His anger is gone. Does yelling at him make him back off?
My face relaxes at his touch, and I fucking hate it. He’s torturing me, and I’m welcoming it.What the fuck?
“You’re sick,” I tell him.
“What else am I?” His fingers trail down my thigh as he tugs at the bottom of my shorts.
“You’re a psychopath.”
“Hmm. That’s quite the diagnosis, Sloane.”
The blade is only an inch away from my skin. I feel the pain before he inflicts it on me.
“Mikhail!” A man’s angry voice floods the room.
I take my eyes off him and look at the steps.
Max.
Mikhail turns to him with annoyance written all over his face. He argues something in Russian under his breath and shakes his head.
Max wears a black hoodie and a dark pair of pants. He doesn’t seem to have a gun on him, or any weapon for that matter. He steps closer to me, looking me up and down, before he reaches his arms behind him and pulls the hoodie off his back. He walks up to Mikhail and takes the knife from him. His eyes fall with disappointment when he cuts me out of the ropes.
