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By the time I look back up, Luca’s already got the next arrow poised and ready. The gleaming tip points straight at me. Not towards my chest—towards my heart where it lies nestled and pumping and beating madly in its cage of bones.
Luca stalks slowly towards me, closing the space between us, his footsteps crushing mine from the snow.
“Youshotme,” I say, more in surprise than annoyance.
“Youstabbedme.”
His tone is matter-of-fact, free of resentment.
“Drop the knife,” he says.
I hesitate. He shakes his head ever so slightly.Not this time, Lynch. The fletching of his arrow brushes the corner of his mouth. The blood runs down my cheek like tears, tickling my jaw and neck.
“Drop it,” he says. His voice is gentle. His eyes are heavy-leaded, he blinks with the lazy satisfaction of a well-fed predator.
Would he do it? Would Luca Fletcher-Lowe fire his arrow straight into my heart like some psychopathic Cupid?
Of course he would. He’d do it in a heartbeat. He’d do it regardless of my obedience if the fancy took him. He’d do it for shits and giggles because he’s a lunatic. He’d do it despite saving my life, despite killing the men who tried to hurt me. He’d do it despite the black worm of disturbing tenderness he holds for me in his heart.
I drop the knife.
“I win, Lynch.” His smile is the last thing you probably see when you’re about to die. “Say it.”
“Technically speaking.”
“Say it.”
I bite out the words.
“Turn around and walk.” His tone is neutral; he doesn’t even dignify my capitulation with a jeer of triumph. “Slowly. Don’t look back.”
I do what he says. I walk back into the house, Luca a silent white shadow behind me, and the entire time, I fully expect to hear the whistling sound that comes before his arrow pierces my heart.
37
Particular Exception
Willow
You’d think Luca Fletcher-Lowe,known degenerate and rumoured satanist sex addict, with his arrow pointed between my shoulder blades, would lead me somewhere in his basement into a secret dungeon. A stone chamber full of chains and pillars and candelabras and strange carvings into the floor.
But he doesn’t.
In the end, Luca Fletcher-Lowe, known degenerate and rumoured satanist sex addict, takes me to his bedroom of all places.
I stop in the doorway and feel the sharp prick of the arrowhead in my back.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Do what you’re told, Lynch.”
“Notthere.”
There’s a soft exhalation of air, like a sigh or a chuckle. “Why not?”
I turn around to face him. He steps back, pointing the arrow at my neck, drawing the string tighter. His sleeve is soaked scarlet with blood. His face is pale except for the telltale flush of excitement high in his cheek, like a blush on a pierrot mask.
“Yourbedroom, Luca. You hate it when I sleep in here anyway.”
