Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Victor tilts his head as if he’s doing mental math. “Men and women?”
I have a horrifying thought. “Do you kill children?” There’s a metallic taste in my mouth.
“No. No one under the age of twenty-two. There are rarely contracts on children unless they are heirs.”
I feel the tiniest bit of relief. The psychopath has standards.
He’s still a monster, I scold myself. I don’t want to think about this dark world that Victor lives in, but I can’t help myself. “What you told me last night. The story of the little boy. Was any of it true?”
“There are no lies between us.” He leans over the island, and that slight movement is enough to send his winter-fresh scent wafting my way.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
I want to protest, but he’s staring at me so intently, gaze scalpel-sharp enough to dissect me, that I have to look away.
“Everything I told you was true. My mother slept with men for money. She did her best to survive. A butcher took us in and gave us food and a place to stay. In return, my mother did whatever he wanted, and I worked for him in the shop. He taught me everything I know.” He’s leaning into the island counter, gripping the edge. It looks casual, but his fingers tighten until they’re almost as white as the quartz. “One night, he hit my mother, and I killed him. I used his favorite knife to cut him into pieces. A graduation of sorts.”
I swallow. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
I blink rapidly. My heart bleeds for the young, tow-headed boy. “And your mother?”
“Dead. I had to run, you see, and she had to hide. She found another man, but he hit her, and it was fatal. I killed him, too.”
“My god.”
“There is no god.” He stalks around the island to stand over me. The wound in his stomach is on display, the bullet puncture a half-healed pink. His head is bowed and shadows lie in the hollows under his cheekbones. “Are you finished?”
Yes, please, let’s change the subject. I lean back to let him take my plate and invite a new danger. My skin prickles as he reaches over me. In this setting, it’s easy to imagine him as a friend or a lover. I’m not a hugger, but all that beautiful muscle, godlike in its perfection? I want to draw him close under the pretense of comfort. Lay my head on his pecs. Slide my hands up his strong back. There’s an ache deep in my gut, one that will only dissolve if I touch him. He’s so close I’d only have to move an inch. . .
I swallow and deliberately angle myself away from him.
I can sense him silently laughing as he carries my plate away.
“Is this some sort of plan to make me care about you?” I ask sourly. “To make me empathize with you so I feel like we’re on the same side?”
“We are on the same side.”
He’s at the sink again, his back to me, but I shake my head. “I mean some sort of psychological conditioning.”
“Stockholm syndrome?”
“Yes. Except Stockholm syndrome was developed by a cop-sympathizing psychologist to discredit a witness’s testimony. A woman’s testimony. It’s more likely she felt real empathy for her captors.”
“You are the expert.” A smile hides behind his dry tone.
“Shut up.”
He finishes the dishes and returns to me. I slide off the stool, not wanting to act too nervous but needing something physical between us. My hands fist at my side, and I will myself not to run. Not to look towards the dungeon door.
“What now?” I finally ask to keep from screaming.
“More training.” Before I can throw myself in the opposite direction, he says, “Not that sort.” He flicks his fingers, and where they were once empty, they now hold a shining blade. “I’m going to teach you how to throw a knife.”
13
Victor
Her dark brows knit together. “Are you serious?”
“Trade you.” I offer her the knife handle first. It’s one of my favorites, a fixed-blade combat knife, both handle and blade a rain cloud gray.
She stares at it. “Is this for real?
“A trade.” I point to her right hand and signal her to Come. “The fork, Lula.”
She sets the fork on the island and reaches for the knife, every movement broadcasting that she doesn’t believe this is happening and expecting a bait and switch.
It will take time, but eventually, she will realize I am honest with her and worthy of her trust.
A sign escapes her when she palms the knife handle. Her entire stance relaxes. This woman was born to hold a weapon.
“You’re really going to teach me?”
“Yes.”
“And if I attack you?”
I shrug. “You’ll learn faster.” I wait for her to make a decision. If she rushes me, I can overpower her. If she runs, it might be difficult to catch her. Untrained, she’s more of a danger to herself than she is to me.