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I was three feet away from the bed when her voice broke the silence of the room: “Don’t you know that if a door is locked, it means you’re not welcome inside?” Brianna must’ve spoken against her pillow; her voice came out muffled.
So she was awake. She wasn’t sleeping. Color me surprised.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, I toyed with the butter knife in my hands. “You knew I’d be able to get in regardless, yet you still went through the trouble of making sure it was locked. Tell me, Brianna, does having it locked make you sleep better at night?”
“I wouldn’t call it trouble. It’s really just turning the lock on the inside. But, yes, actually. Knowing it’s locked does help me sleep better at night.” She rolled over, slow to sit up, holding the sheets against her body as a shield. Though it was dark, I could make out the outline of her face, how she glared at me.
“I’m not very happy with you, you know,” I told her.
She didn’t respond to that. Instead, she asked, “What’d you have for dinner?” Such a random question, completely out of the blue.
“I didn’t eat dinner.”
“So you sent Emily home before she had the chance to make it?” There was an edge to her voice, one that wasn’t there before, almost like she suspected there was more to it. Had she somehow put it all together?
No, impossible.
“She made a mess, and I was too pissed at you to want to deal with her, so I fired her. You won’t ever be seeing her again.” My hand gripped the butter knife harder, so hard my knuckles had to be white.
“You fired her?” Brianna echoed. “Over a mess? Did you clean it up or did she?”
I scooted up the edge of the bed, closer to her. “You know, you’re asking an awful lot of questions. You’re sounding a little paranoid. Is something wrong?” Though it was dark, I smirked at that.
She didn’t say anything to that, suddenly mute.
I decided to reach for her, grabbing her by the back of the head, my fingers tangling in her hair, and yanking her towards me. She still clutched those sheets like they could save her, but she now sat directly beside me on the bed.
With my hand still in her hair, I brought the knife up to her face, resting it against her cheek, drawing the cold steel down her smooth skin. I could smell it, her fear. I knew what it was she wanted to ask.
“Go ahead,” I hissed out. “Say what you’re really thinking.”
Brianna let out a trembling breath, and the last thing her voice sounded was unsure as she asked, “Did you hurt her? Did you… did you kill her?”
“If I did, what do you think I’d do to you?” I let out a short chuckle, and then I released her head and pulled the knife away from her face. I got up from the bed, kicked off my shoes, and wandered to the window, where I pulled the curtains open, letting the moonlight shine in and illuminating Brianna’s motionless figure in bed.
Such a vulnerable position she was in, and yet she had the guts to ask me that point blank. Had to hand it to her.
Brianna didn’t say anything to that, and I was slow in meandering back to the bed. This time I sat on the other side of it, and I patted the middle of the bed, saying, “Come here.” She didn’t move, so I growled out, “If you think I killed the cook for annoying me, what do you think I’ll do to you if you don’t do exactly as I say?”
I heard her swallow hard, and then she scooted towards the center of the bed, closer to me. She still held onto the sheets like they could protect her from me. How funny.
“I didn’t come here to talk to you about the cook. It’s best if you let it go, take it from me. No, I came here to ask you why you think you have the right to ignore me. Let’s problem-solve this equation of you and I.”
“There is no you and I,” she whispered. “Get out of my room, Gareth.”
A devilishly sly laugh came from me as I said, “You still don’t get it, do you? Time for another lesson, then.” I took hold of the sheets she clutched, and I yanked them away from her as hard as I could. She couldn’t keep a good grip on them; she wasn’t as strong as I was. They slipped through her fingers.
I pounced on her, straddling her on the bed, pinning her body down. All the while, a wicked grin sat on my face. While still holding onto the butter knife, I took hold of both her wrists and pulled them up, above her head, and I held them there. She breathed hard, but at least she had the brains to cease her struggling. She couldn’t get out of this.
My body straddled hers, my knees on either side of her hips. I smirked down at her, and she stared up at me with a fiery defiance. “You don’t get to order me around,” I told her. “And you certainly don’t get to avoid me. There are consequences for every action you take—”
“You’re a psycho,” she hissed, baring her teeth at me. “You’re insane. You’re fucking mad.”
I was able to hold both her wrists with a single hand—a benefit of her being smaller in stature—and I set the butter knife aside to free up that hand. Bringing it to her neck, I squeezed her throat hard enough to make her gasp.
“If I’m mad, then this is the madhouse, baby—and there ain’t no escaping the madhouse once you’ve been a patient.”
“I’m not mad. You are.”
