I hit the massage table, knock it sideways, and crash to the floor.
Pain explodes through my cheekbone, my shoulder, my hip where I landed.
"That's for the inconvenience," he says calmly.
I try to get up.
Try to crawl away.
His boot catches me in the ribs.
I scream—can't help it—the pain is too much.
"And that's for the kids we lost."
Another kick.
This one to my stomach.
I curl into myself, trying to protect my body, but he's too fast, too strong.
"Your boyfriend thought he could be a hero." Kick. "Thought he could save those brats." Kick. "Cost us weeks of work." Kick. "Cost us a delivery." Kick.
I can't breathe.
Can't scream anymore.
Can only lie there and take it.
"Maybe next time he'll think twice."
He crouches down beside me.
I flinch away, but there's nowhere to go.
The knife appears again, glinting in the dim light.
"Something to remember me by."
The blade bites into my arm.
I cry out—weak, broken—as he carves a line from my elbow to my wrist.
Not deep enough to kill.
Just deep enough to scar.
"Pretty ring," he says, grabbing my left hand. "Too bad you won't get to wear it much longer if your man doesn't back off."
He wrenches the ring off my finger.
Pockets it.
"No," I gasp. "Please—not the ring—please?—"
"Tell your boyfriend William Smith says hello. Oh wait—" He laughs. "That's not my real name. Guess he'll have to figure that out himself."
He stands.
