That’s worse than his chuckle.
A hell of a lot worse.
The unmistakablesnickof a large folding knife being opened makes it to me through the hood and I wonder if he’s going to slit my throat. That would suck, but at least it’d be fast. As long as he does it right and doesn’t botch it, meaning he gets the veins and arteries on both sides of my throat so I bleed out and lose consciousness quickly.
I should know.
In fact, I do know.
It sucks when you have to perfect a technique like that, but it’s frequently too difficult to smuggle and use a gun somewhere. You can find a knife in nearly any kitchen and don’t need a special permit to buy one. If desperate, you can break a glass jar or bottle and use a shard of that for the work.
He roughly wrenches my chair back and away from the table, and I’m certain this is it. But what he does next takes me by surprise—he catches the back of my collar with what I assume is the knife’s gut hook and roughly tugs down, cutting my shirt along the back. I don’t resist as he completely cuts my shirt off me in pieces without removing my restraints.
I hear him close the knife and I assume he puts it away because I don’t hear him lay it on the table.
“Oooh, that must hurt, the way it’s bruised and swollen.” His finger digs, hard, into the front of my left shoulder, right at the joint, and I can’t stop the cry of pain before it leaves my mouth.
He chuckles, confusing the hell out of my cock.
Maybe I’m already dead and this is some weird version of Hell? Being tortured in a bad way by a guy who sounds exactly like the man who used to torture me in all the good ways?
I laugh despite myself, until he withdraws his finger and I can drag in shaky breaths.
I’m too old for this bullshit. I really am.
If by some miracle I do manage to get myself out of this, I’mdone. Lesson learned, Universe. Stay home, stay bored, and stay alive.
My little flat in Berlin is deceptively mundane and middle-class. I prefer it that way because then I’m not a target or attracting attention, like I would be if I was flashy and wildly spending my hard-earned, ill-gotten gains. Most people assume I’m just a lonely old pensioner hanging around before making my way to God’s waiting room.
I mean, in that way they’re not wrong, exactly.
I couldn’t even tell you the names of my neighbors. I make a point of doing nothing more than nodding to them if I pass them in the hall or lobby as we all come and go. If I don’t talk to them and don’t engage, I don’t have to remember any stories I’ve told them.
When neighbors talk about me, all they’ll have to compare notes about is referring to me as the anti-social neighbor. Hell, I rarely have anyone over as a visitor. In fact, the last person who came to my flat in the past ten years who wasn’t a repair tech or delivery person was Carter, just a few weeks ago.
The man’s voice once again pulls me back. “Tsk. Eddie, why do you want to make this hard on yourself?”
“I’m an overachiever, I suppose. Never could safeword worth a damn.”
He pokes my bad shoulder again. This time, I manage to force back the pained howl and wrangle it into nothing more than a grunt before it leaves my mouth.
He’s playing with me—I can tell. He’s testing my edges instead of going right for the hardest, most painful techniques. Cat and mouse.
Sadist and masochist.
I’m soooooo fucking screwed.
Chapter Four
Then
Elsa not only stole my heart, she ripped my soul clean out of my chest and wiped her ass with it. It’s only in retrospect I can look back and see that I was never really in love with her.
The idea of her—theidealof her—is what hooked me and drew me in and kept me under her spell far longer than I ever should have spent there.
Someone paying attention to me, especially a strong female figure. I did all the emotional heavy lifting for her and handed myself to her without any struggle whatsoever.
It’s so textbook it’s clichéd, I suppose.
