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Maybe she doesn’t know exactly what we do.
But that can’t be right. She was out for blood, and there’s always a reason behind it.
Maybe she’s a scorned lover of my father’s.
The thought of my father’s hands on her delicate skin causes my chest to clench.
But now, there is no us; there’s me. And I have to figure out what the fuck to do with her since she saw what I did. My first thought is to get rid of her. It would be easy. I’ve done it before but never with a woman. And not one that I find myself drawn to.
For fuck’s sake.
I trace the strap holding her left wrist down with my index finger. I have this pull to be close to her, but I’m not sure I should touch her skin. Just raking a thumb down her lips in the office had my heart racing.
“I once saw a man bound just like this. His arm was sliced slowly from his shoulder”—I lightly touch the area on her—“all the way down to where he was strapped.”
Fuck it.I let my finger trail along her skin, watching the goose bumps rise. “He was flayed open, the blood welling up as he watched. That was it, no other marks made on him, and it took quite a while for him to bleed out.”
I want to puke at the memory. I was thirteen at that time.
“Do you know what that man’s offense was?”
Wryn doesn’t say anything.
“Of course you don’t,” I say with a forced chuckle. “He fell asleep while he was on security duty. He worked for my father. He wasn’t even an enemy of our family.”
Wryn turns a shade whiter.
“A far cry from your transgression, don’t you think?”
There’s a knock at the door, and then Geo enters. I stay silent as he crosses to the table, laying his leather-bound tool kit on top of it. He slowly unrolls it, and the silver metal gleams under the light. Wryn looks like she’s going to be sick again.
Good.We will see what she’s truly made of.
I pick up an ice pick and then trace the same trail I did before. The cold metal is stark against her pale skin as I press it against her shoulder, and then with a featherlight touch, I move it down to her wrist. I push it in there, waiting until a drop of blood wells up, and she flinches, a gasp escaping her lips.
She’s stronger than I thought she would be. I don’t want to inflict pain, but I’ve found that it’s the fastest way to get answers, and in this case, with my father lying dead upstairs, I need answers now.
“Who sent you?” I ask.
She tilts her head to the side, giving me a greater glimpse of the red fingermark streaks on her neck. Her hair sticks to her forehead, and there’s sweat beading along the top of her lip. I push the pick into her skin a little more.
“No one,” she rasps out, making a fist with her hand.
“No one? I find that hard to believe.” I withdraw the pick and put it back in its leather strap. I think I hear a sigh of relief escape from her, and I walk my fingers along the tools until I reach another one. It has a small, curved blade, much like a surgical instrument. Meant to make precise cuts.
I’m not going to mar her skin more than I already have, but she doesn’t know that.
I bend down, placing my head right beside hers. I can hear her pants in the cold room as she takes air in and then forces it back out, her panic evident.
“Who sent you?” I whisper right in her ear, and to her credit, she doesn’t move, doesn’t jerk back from me. “Why would my father have let you in?”
She swallows audibly, and then I see it—the moment where she gives in to me.
“He thought I was an employee for a business partner.” She grits her teeth as she talks, as if I were wrenching the words from deep within her—and maybe I am. After all, she didn’t plan on getting caught, I’m sure.
“Dressed like that?” I raise one eyebrow as I stand, crossing my arms and leaning back against the table beside her.
Her eyes flicker to the blade still in my hand, and I smile.
