I scoot away to the opposite side, frantically trying the locked door as the vehicles begin to move in a row, one ahead of and one behind ours. I turn to him and for as panicked as I am, as I frantically, fruitlessly search for a way out, he just grins. He takes out his phone as he reclines in his seat and clicks on something.
It’s when I hear the music of a game—a fucking game—that I lose my shit.
Jerk. Fucking jerk.
“You can’t do this,” I yell, seething as the train grows smaller and smaller, and we drive over a bump and onto the road.
“I just did. Put your seat belt on. It’s a dangerous world.” He makes eye contact briefly before shifting his attention back to his phone.
I lunge for him, wanting to smash his phone to bits, wanting to scratch my nails across his perfect, smug face.
But he’s too fast.
The phone’s gone in an instant, and he seizes my wrists hard, hurting me as he tugs me close. He shifts his grip so he’s holding both wrists in one hand.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” he warns.
“Fuck. You.”
Slate eyes darken to coal black. He reaches into his jacket pocket and I watch in horror as he takes that syringe out. He shifts my arms, trapping them between his thighs and grips my hair to force me down onto his lap, turning my head so I can see him.
“No!” I try to pull my arms free, but it’s impossible.
Keeping hold of my hair, he uncaps the syringe with his teeth, and spits the lid away.
“What did I just say?”
“Let go!”
“No, that’s not it, sweetheart,” he says.
He pushes air out of the needle, and I feel a few drops of whatever’s inside hit my cheek.
I try to move my head, to get away as he brings the tip of the needle toward me.
“I told you not to make me hurt you, but you aren’t yet ready to do as you’re told.”
“Please don’t,” I try. He pushes my hair off my neck and turns my face slightly, so my nose and mouth are pressed against his thigh.
For a moment, I’m not sure what he’s doing and everything goes out the window when I try to take a breath and can’t. I struggle to pull my arms out from between his legs, try to turn my head to no avail. Just when I think I’m going to smother to death, I feel the needle in my vein. Feel him empty the contents into me, painful and cold and final.
I can breathe again after that. And he’s petting my hair, my cheek resting on his lap. He’s not holding me down because he doesn’t have to.
I can’t move.
He turns my head so I can see him through heavy lidded eyes.
“What…” I trail off.
“Next time, do as you’re told.”
My eyes close and I can’t open them anymore. I feel his fingers on me, gentle as they brush hair from my cheek. And as much as I try to fight it, try to stay awake, I can’t.6DamianRecapping the empty syringe, I tuck it back into my pocket.
“Thirty minutes, sir,” says the driver.
“Is my nephew settled?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And my sister?”
“Still at the hotel, sir.”
“Good.” I glance out the window.
Thirty minutes to the airport. Another hour in the air, followed by a half-hour drive home.
Home.
The thought sours my mood.
I brush the hair back from Cristina’s face. It’s still to her shoulders at least, although I liked it longer. Something to wrap my fist around. But I suppose I’ll manage.
I want to see her. I want to look at her face, study it, this girl, this symbol of our hate. This vessel to absorb our rage.
I’ve seen pictures over the years. Memorized images as she grew from that barefoot little girl into the beauty asleep on my lap.
Well. Not quite asleep. Drugged.
I knew I’d use the needle when I brought it and I don’t have any qualms about that. I expected her to disobey and I know she will again. It’s in her to fight.
And it’s in me to win.
Her skin feels soft beneath my fingertips, warm. Flawless but for the scar that runs from her mouth down over her cheek, neck, and disappears inside her sweater. It’s faded now. I wonder how deep it runs. What I’ll find when I undress her to see all of her.
My cock stirs at the thought.
Even though she doesn’t know it, a portion of the last almost decade of my life has been devoted to Cristina Valentina. After the accident, and especially after my sister Annabel’s passing, she became a focal point. Something to distract us from the loss, perhaps.
I think of my sister. She should have died the night of the accident. We should have let her go. But this is one of the few instances where I understand my father.