They’re directly in front of me. The man made sure of it, giving me the perfect view. I see everything.
Her hands clasp tightly in her lap. She won’t look at him. Only at me.
“Do you like the dress?” he asks.
Sabine blinks, like she has to drag herself back into the moment. Then she nods. “It’s beautiful.”
He exhales like she just gave him a crown. He moves to pour the wine, sets down two glasses, and reaches into the box again.
This time, he pulls out the second knife.
Not the one he threw at the heart. This one is smaller. Curved. Designed for close work. For cutting, not throwing.
My blood turns to ice.
“Just one more thing,” he says, and starts walking toward me. “Before we start…”
I brace myself.
Every muscle in my body locks into place beneath torn skin. My right hand is free. My left is almost there. My whole being coils inward, wound so tight it’s ready to snap or explode.
He walks slowly.
Sabine shifts in her seat. I catch the movement at the edge of my vision.
She says nothing.
Doesn’t interrupt.
Doesn’t scream.
But all the color drains from her face.
And just as I wonder if this is the moment—one of my hands is free, after all—he lifts the knife to my mouth.
“Taste it, Cassian,” he says, surprising me. “Taste the sauce from the steak. I’d feel bad leaving you out. You’ve been here this whole time, keeping me company. I feel obliged.”
He dips the tip of the knife into a tiny ceramic bowl he’s been holding all this time in the other hand. Blood-red sauce clings to the edge, thicker than wine, richer than anything that belongs here. The smell hits me as he brings it close to my lips.
I can barely taste anything as he presses it to my closed mouth.
“I said taste it,” he whispers, tilting his head, voice slick with that syrupy madness he calls charm. “It’s a rosemary and cherry wine reduction. Sabine’s favorite flavor. I worked hard on it. It would be rude not to try.”
I stare at him.
Let my eyes go flat and feral.
“Suit yourself,” he says, turning away. “You see, Sabine, I’ve treated your brother well since welcoming him to my den. He’s just not very good at behaving.”
“Oh,” she says, trying to keep up the act. Her voice is thin, unsteady. “I’m sure he’s just… overwhelmed.”
And even though I hate that she has to do this, I’m grateful. Grateful she’s stalling. Grateful she’s playing along.
Normally, giving in like this is a mistake. If things were different, I’d want her to fight him. To scream. To tear this place apart. Hell, I’d rather she never came here at all. Never put herself at risk.
But this man isn’t someone you provoke before you’re ready.
Who knows what he did—or what Eli did for him—to make her come here.
