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Two armchairs sit before the blazing heat, one of them occupied.
He’s awake.
Waiting for me.
The profile of his face cuts a sharp outline against the backdrop of the fire. He doesn’t turn to look at me. Nevertheless, my repulsion at the sight of him threatens to consume my sanity.
In one heavy blink, my bravado dies beneath bursting adrenaline, rapid breathing, sweaty palms, muscle tension, and frantic heartbeats. But I maintain my grip on the gun. It doesn’t shake. I don’t falter.
He lifts a glass tumbler to his lips and stares at the fire. “If you shoot me, I’ll die with the answers you seek.”
“I have all the answers, including the one you seek.” I shut the door and erase the distance.
“What answer do I seek?”
I circle the armchairs and pause before him, my nose twitching against a cloud of aftershave and masculine soap. His hair is damp, freshly showered.
But no amount of scrubbing will ever cleanse his soul.
“How will you die?” Standing out of arm’s reach, I aim the gun at his chest. “Me. That’s how.”
“Mm.” He sets the drink on the table beside him and shifts his gaze to the weapon. “What are you waiting for? Do it. Then turn that gun on my boys. It would be more merciful than starvation.”
“Nah. I’m not killing anyone tonight. But I can’t say the same for your dick.” I lower the gun, training it on his groin. “Don’t struggle. This will only hurt a little.”
His eyes widen, and his face turns ghostly white.
I pull the trigger.
43
Frankie
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The gun clicks.
His expression freezes, and the whites of his eyes go round and stark with terror. I savor every detail and pull the trigger again.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
I keep shooting, listening to the pin hit the chamber, over and over, despite the continual dry fires.
Dry. Because the revolver isn’t loaded.
He’s in such a state of shock—shoulders hiked around his ears, posture as rigid as the dead—he hasn’t registered my bluff.
I lift my finger off the trigger. The room falls silent, and his features twist from fear to confusion before settling on relief. But he still grips the arms of that chair like his life depends on it.
It’s glorious.
“I made sure there were no bullets.” Thrumming with adrenaline, I set the gun on the mantle behind me. “Didn’t trust myself to spare your life.”
Killing him tonight was never an option. I have to defeat the monster without starving us in the process.
“Why?” His voice cracks, and he clears it. “Why bring the gun if you knew it wasn’t loaded?”
Stepping to the nearby liquor cart, I pour a glass of my favorite bourbon.
“I wanted to see the look on your face. And now I know.” I lower into the chair beside him and lean in. “I know exactly what you’ll look like when I kill you. Cheers.”
I swig the chest-warming liquor and study him over the rim of the glass.
He doesn’t twitch, and in that moment, I’m convinced he sees straight through my false bravado.
Will he bury me alive? Helena threatened him, and look how that ended.
Panic floods, and the hairs on my arms go erect.
Until his eyes soften, hooded and smoldering.
“So fierce.” He wets his lips. “My God, you’re exquisite.”
I expel a breath.
The devil is attracted to me. He’s hidden it well. Guarded it like a dirty secret. But it’s radiating from him now, dilating his pupils and tightening the crotch of his pants.
Everything inside me recoils at the dark look on his face, but the logical part of me recognizes it for what it is.
Leverage.
I don’t know if he was attracted to Helena or any of the others, but I’m not them. As long as I don’t tie him up and starve him, he won’t kill me. He needs me too much. I’m the first real chance he has at controlling his sons and obtaining his goal.
I’m the only one in Hoss who can give him children.
Children to love and dominate.
Vitriol spikes in my veins.
When I walked in here with an unloaded gun, I knew my options were dire.
If I do nothing, his sons pay for my cowardice.
If I kill him, we all die.
If I outsmart him, we might survive.
Surviving isn’t the same as living, but I need to secure a temporary truce, one that will last until we escape.
How does one outsmart a psychopath? People do it. Detectives, investigative journalists, cocky FBI agents…They do it with an air of calmness and courage I will never have.
But I can fake it. I can compartmentalize my feelings and imagine myself interviewing a serial killer, looking for a break in a case or chasing a big story.
I sip the bourbon, swirl it in the glass, sip, swirl, and slowly order my muscles to loosen and unwind, sinking into the leather chair.
“Your thoughts are so loud I can hear them.” He drinks from his glass, watching me. “Since you’re out of impulsive options, you’re desperately trying to map out the long game.”
