“I’m not Mara,” I say again, looking at the door we came in through. It’s just beyond him. There’s even a red exit sign over it.
He walks toward me, and I scoot sideways. The men have stopped laughing, stopped talking. Someone turns the music off. The silence is abrupt and jarring. They’re watching us. I feel their eyes. And I’m not sure I’ll make it to the door. I hear the sound of a beer bottle being set on the table. It’s that quiet. But I don’t turn. I keep my eyes on the one in front of me. The one with the broken face.
“Let me take you to one of the bedrooms. You can rest.”
No. No way. I am not going into a bedroom. I’m not going where they can hurt me. Not without putting up a fight. Never again.
“You can have a hot bath. Lie down. I’ll get you some warmer clothes.” All the while as he speaks, I realize he’s coming closer, herding me farther and farther from the exit.
“Just let me go.” I try. I don’t know why. It hasn’t ever worked before.
He stops moving. “Sweetheart,” he says, looks at me like he feels sorry for me, and I hate that look. I hate their pity. Anyway, it’s not real. “Where would you go?” he asks.
My back is at the wall. I close my eyes, take a deep breath in, and press my fingernails into my palms. It hurts but it helps. Helps to make me strong. I remember Helga. She was a bitch. A horrible, sadistic bitch who got what she deserved. I remember Scarlett. Remember what she did. How she hit Helga with the lamp over and over again. How she killed her. Scarlett thought she could save us.
I need to be strong like her. I need to remember to be strong because they like it when you’re scared. Like it when you cry.
I straighten, open my eyes to look at him again. “Where would I go?” I ask.
He cocks his head to the side.
“Away from you,” I tell him, my voice sounding more determined than I feel.
He smiles again, nods like he’s proud of me and wipes the corner of his lip with his thumb. “I’m glad to hear you have some fight in you.”
I eye the knife he has in a holster on his belt. He’s still talking but I tune him out. I need to concentrate. I’ll get one chance. And when he takes a step closer, I lunge at him, surprising him, my fingers closing around the hilt as he catches my waist. He laughs a little as he takes one step backward, so I don’t slam into his chest, his arms wrapping around me as if he wants to be sure I don’t fall.
That’s good. Because he doesn’t feel it when I slip the blade from its holster and bring it to his dick. If there’s one thing I know, its men become babies when their dicks are threatened and it’s the one sure way to get their attention.
From the kitchen comes the cocking of four pistols, but I don’t look away. I can’t risk it.
“Relax,” eye-patch man says but he’s not talking to me. He’s telling them. I can tell from the tone of his voice.
“Get away from me,” I hiss, keeping my voice low like they do when they really want to scare you.
He laughs as if that was funny. I think he’s crazy. He must be. His reaction is all wrong and for a moment, it confuses me. And that’s all he needs. One single moment.
He’s fast. Faster than Petrov. Faster than Felix. Faster than any of their soldiers. And before I know it, he has his big hand wrapped around my wrist and is pulling it away from his dick. I feel the pressure of his grip but he’s not hurting me. Or at least he’s trying not to.
“That’s sharp,” he says, expression hard but not angry. He squeezes my wrist enough to force my fingers to uncurl so he can take the dagger. He doesn’t look away once as he tucks it back into its holster and I feel myself deflate, feel my shoulders slump.
I’m too weak. I’ve always been too weak.
“Please let me go,” I say, feeling my lip quiver. “Please just let me go. I’ll go back. I won’t tell him where you are. I promise.”
His eyebrows furrow. “You think I’d let you go back to that bastard? Petrov and those others will never lay a hand on you again. I will tear them limb from limb before I let them near you,” he says, the disgust in his voice like sandpaper against my skin.
I try to pull my wrist free, but he won’t let go. I look at it, see how big he is. My wrist looks like a doll’s in his giant hand. It’s scarred too. But a line of red sliding down his arm catches my attention. He’s bleeding again.