“Stop it.” I punch his back, but nothing helps. It’s like hitting a wall. “Stop.”
“You stop, Trouble.”Slap.“Mine. You’re mine.”
I’m too horrified to scream or fight harder, though I really should.
He stomps across the basement, each of his steps massive. A reminder of how big he is. How easily he could squash me like a bug.
Don’t think about that.
Right. I have to think about escaping. But it’s almost impossible when I see what Knox has stacked against me besides his size.
Weapons. So many of them.
My heart stutters at the sight. From my place over his shoulder, I catch the glint of a chainsaw hanging on his wall. Dust coats it, but that offers no comfort.
If he needs to use it on me, he will.
My throat stays locked tight while his hand caresses the sting on my ass.
I’m not reassured by it.
His feigned kindness is devastating.
It unravels me.
A reckless part of me wants more of Knox’s touch. He’s warm, solid, disturbingly familiar, like I’ve known him all my life.
Shut up, heart.
Easier said than done. Shock warps the mind that way. Safety and danger blur until I can’t tell one from the other.
But I have to do it, have to tell them apart.
Knox is the enemy. And no matter how many times he calls this place home, it isn’t. Not my home anyway.
Where I grew up—my real home—is all worn rugs and antique furniture. It’s throw blankets and pillows in every color. Warmth leaks from each wall, even though my parents are hardly ever there.
Here, no throw blankets or similar comfort items lie around.
There’s the chainsaw, yes, and other horrors too.
On the shelves beside it, jars and boxes are stacked tight, each one marked with a label I can’t make out in my current state. But the thought of what might be inside is enough to send ice shooting up my spine.
Beneath the shelves sits a rough-hewn wooden table. Laid out on top of it are knives. Three of them. Long, heavy, gleaming. Fleshing knives.
Tools of his trade.
“Other than doing whatever it takes to paralyze them, you don’t damage the quality by striking below the neck.”
At the memory of Papa’s words, my mouth goes numb. As I come to terms with what’s actually going on here.
The Colberts don’t work on livestock hides.
They deal in people.
That’s why threatening to turn me into his next belt came so naturally to Knox.
The others kill them, and here is where Knox tans them.
