He blinks. So do I. The grit in my tone shocks even me. “You…you are not Robert,” I add. “I don’t owe you a damn thing. If you want to kill me, kill me. I’ll even do it myself…” I eye my mangled hand, horrified by my own boast. How easy would it be to cut a little lower and a lot deeper? “I’m notyourcaptive anymore. So if you want me to work for you, then you earn my respect. My trust... This toy is not afraid of being broken.”
I’m panting with the effort it took to get the words out.Stupid.Shutting my eyes, I press my skull back into the headrest. Do I regret what I’ve said? The answer terrifies me more than any rage Mischa could ignite.
No. I don’t.
Not even as his breath scalds the tender flesh of my throat.
“And there she is,” he growls. Is the grudging respect I hear a result of delirium? “The bitch without her mask. Can she back up the bullshit spewing from that pretty mouth?” He presses something against my palm and my brain shies from identifying it. Hard. Leather? “She better be able to.”
He pulls away, and when I open my eyes, I find my hand wrapped around something thick. Long. Partly metal.
A knife.
A thrill runs through me as I tighten my grip on the handle. Am I its intended target—and he’s just toying with me—or is the weapon meant to serve a more nefarious purpose?
Maybe as a reminder:you’ve already sliced away part of yourself...
Are you willing to sacrifice more?
You better be.