“I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but I notice telltale signs and patterns. It’s what I do best.”
“Because you’re in the mafia?”
“Because I had to in order to predict the behavior of someone.”
“Someone?”
He raises a brow. “Aren’t you full of questions today? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re interested in me.”
“As if.” I push the empty plate away. “I just want to know who I’m dealing with.”
“You know, you don’t have to make this unpleasant, Cecily. You and I are compatible and share a very specific kink. I can make you feel alive and desired in ways no one else is capable of. I can take away the burden of being socially accepted. It’s all in the palm of your hand if you quit being standoffish and stop fighting me every step of the way.”
“We’re not compatible, Jeremy.”
“How so?”
“You think of me as your toy, someone you can dish out orders to and expect to fall in line, and I just refuse to be that way. You don’t even give me a fair chance to make my own choices.”
“I gave you that and you chose wrong.” His voice darkens to a frightening edge.
“What? When?”
He doesn’t answer, as usual, and I’m left with the worst case of bemusement.
Ever since I became acquainted with Jeremy, he’s never given me a choice. Not even once.
So how the hell can he say I chose wrong?
He stands up with the lethargy of a big black cat and I push back against the banquette.
There’s been a shift in the air. I’m not sure why, but it’s there, and it’s rippling with suffocating tension.
“Are you done eating?”
“Why?” My voice is barely a murmur, despite how much of a pep talk I internally give myself.
“Didn’t you ask what we’ll do after we eat? The answer is a game.”
“What type of game?”
“My favorite. Russian roulette.”
20
CECILY
“Did you just say Russian roulette?”
“If you know the game, it doesn’t need any introduction.” A cruel smirk lifts the corner of Jeremy’s lips as he marches to a side cupboard and retrieves a small metal suitcase.
Like the ones you see in action films.
He slides it on the table between us and opens it, pulling out a revolver.
Not a toy gun, not a prop, but a real one.
His long fingers slide around the metal with expert ease as he rolls the rotating cylinder open and dumps all the bullets on the table.