“What the fuck, you asshole!” I go to grab another blade from the weapons table, but he’s already moving—closing the distance, pressing me into the wall.
His body cages me in. His scent cuts through the sweat. I shove; he doesn’t move. He just grips my wrists and pins them high above my head. Plucking the knife free from the wall, he twirls it, then presses it into my palm before stepping back.
“You won’t get better cutting rubber,” he says, nodding at the tire. “Practice on me.”
“No.” The word comes out a snarl, but I’m already falling into position. Desperate to prove I can hit him.
I lunge. He dodges. My blade slices air.
“Again. You’re slower on your right.”
“I’ve stabbed you before, prick. I’ll do it again.” I slash at his throat, catching skin.
He grins. The bastard actually grins.
I throw myself at him, but he spins my back into his chest, hand flattening low on my stomach, breath hot against my ear.
“Focus, kitten.” His teeth catch my earlobe.
“Fuck you.”
“That’sstillon your mind? Fucking?” His other hand slides over my ass. “Because you’re certainly not focused on stabbing.”
His words sink into my stomach.
I throw my head back, pushing on my heels just enough to land a solid hit to his fucking chin.
He stumbles, and I drive my elbow into his gut, spinning on him before he can recover. The tip of my blade finds his throat, slicing just enough to draw blood.
He doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he leans into it. The steel bites deeper, a slow streak of red sliding down his throat, disappearing into the black ink of the number187tattooed under the curve of his jaw.
His hand closes over the blade, blood running hot over my knuckles. “Do it.”
“What—”
He steps forward, forcing me back, the blade digging deeper into his flesh. He slides the knife along his neck—across the thick, raised line of that tattoo.
His tongue drags over his teeth in a sick, satisfied grin. “Right here, kitten. Drive it in. Kill me.”
Something inside me splinters. The knife slips, blood and metal spatter the floor. I want to kill him. God, I want to carve him open. But not on his command. Not on his fucking terms.
I spin to leave. He presses me back against the wall, forearm crushing my throat. My legs kick air. He jams the blade back into my grip, forces my hand against his neck.
“Stop, you’re insane?—”
“Kill me.” His blood drips down my hand.
“Stop!”
“Fucking kill me, Arlo!”
I freeze. Can’t move. Can’t breathe.
“No,” I rasp. “When I kill you, it’ll be when you least expect it. You don’t get the privilege of choosing your death.”
I twist the blade, cut him just enough to make him loosen. I shove him off. Tears sting my eyes. He’s the only man who’s ever made me feel so much at once—violence, fury, fear—mixed with the one emotion I can’t even name.
