6
Perhaps it was all a dream, a fucked up dream but a dream because this bed isn’t the same one I’ve been in for the past God knows how long and this room is lit up with the moonlight streaming in through the window, casting shadows over the white painted walls and lighting up the paintings hanging there. I shift, feeling the silky sheets beneath my back and legs and almost groan at the luxury, even if my arms and legs have been restrained again and are slightly numb from being in this position for too long.
I wonder how many times I can take a hit to the head before I should start to worry about the lasting damage it’s going to have.
Taking out the girl was easy, she had severely underestimated me and all it took was a swift elbow to stun her and then a knee to her temple and she went down. Gruff however was another matter. That fucker was big.
I gave it a good shot though, but there isn’t going to be a next time for a while, I know that for sure. That was my only attempt at escaping, they won’t make the same mistake twice.
My throat is as dry as a desert and my stomach rumbles, cramping with hunger.
How long have I been here now?
It’s got to be days, three maybe but I have no idea, everything has blurred into one, making it impossible to tell one day apart from the next.
I lean back on the soft pillow under my head and take a deep breath.
The house around me is quiet, too quiet which is unnerving, and I still have no idea what they want with me.
Somewhere downstairs the door opens, and slams closed immediately before feet pound on the stairs, and then across the hall, loud and angry, heading right for me.
Great.
The door to the room smashes open, hard enough to vibrate the paintings hanging on the walls, and there he is.
There is something disturbingly beautiful about the man, he was lethal, unhinged and clearly batshit, but he was as brutal as he was beautiful. All sharp angles and hard lines. The scent of smoke and ash fills the room, getting stronger the closer he comes to the bed.
“Didn’t peg you to be a smoker,” I comment. That’s the truth, his teeth are too white, too clean but then he clearly has money so the effects of smoking can just be wiped away.
“We’re going to send a message, little bird,” He growls down to me. Oh he’s pissed.
“Okay, cool, why don’t you hand me my phone and I’ll get right on that.”
Pushing him now seems like the wrong thing to do but I just can’t help it. I’ve never been one to just take shit lying down, if there’s a fight, I’m going to fight.
He withdraws a blade, turning it over in his hand, the steel catching in the light as he rolls it, pressing the sharpened edge against his palm hard enough to slice the skin and allow beads of crimson to bloom on the surface.
He smirks down at me, a cruel tilt of his lips that strikes fear right down to the pit of my soul. "You're funny."
"Thanks," I force the word from my lips as he leans forward and runs the very tip of that blade down the centre of my chest, the razor edge snagging and tearing the material of my clothes and further down to slice at my skin. The pain is almost a phantom, a sting barely present but it's there, nonetheless, making you uncomfortable, making you want to kick it away if only to ease the frustration of having it irritate you.
He follows the blade with his eyes as he moves it down my abdomen and then back up, all the way up until the tip sits right atop my pulse point, with every thump my wild heart gives, the blade pushes in further, drawing blood that wells and then rolls down my throat.
He appears to be hypnotized by the trail of blood, his silver eyes following it down as it rolls over my skin before his eyes bounce up and land on my mouth.
My lips are parted, my breathing shallow and fast, the warming between my thighs worrying and yet welcoming.
He brings the blade away from my neck, the silver now laced with red ribbons, a mixture of my blood and his and reaches forward, placing the very tip of it against my bottom lip. I’m frozen, unable to move as he watches me intently, not blinking, not moving except for the hand that holds the blade. Slowly, he pushes the blade down, the tip biting into my bottom lip and I have no choice but to open my mouth. There’s a sting on the sensitive flesh where he’s cut me, and I feel more blood rolling slowly over my lip and onto my chin.
His shoulders square and his spine straightens as the pupils of his eyes seem to devour his irises.
I’m prepared for him to cut me, to stab me, ready for whatever wound he’s about to inflict. I see it there, a warning inside his eyes, a promise of violence and I only feel it sinking deeper into my body as he draws closer, taking the blade away from my mouth quickly, the edge slicing through my lip before he places it back at my throat, pressing it against the windpipe. There should be pain, but the threat of death simply numbs everything and knowing that a simple jerk of his hand will end it for me keeps the panic and fear behind a barrier. His eyes bounce between my eyes, my mouth and the blade pressing into my flesh. All the air leaves my lungs, a tightening in my stomach that really didn’t belong in this situation. Instinctively, I swallow, the move making the blade scratch against my skin and just when I think this is it, he’s going to snatch that blade through my neck his mouth slams against mine with a ferocity that I am not prepared for.
I should fight.
I need to fight, bite him, headbutt him but I don’t do that. Of course I don’t because my body has turned against me, and I tilt my head to let his tongue stroke deeper.
One hand still holds that damn blade to my throat but the other grips my hair and tugs, pulling painfully but instead of lashing out like I should, I whimper and purr like a damn cat.