I’m gazing up at Dessin’s face, the way one would look through a telescope, admiring the mystery of the stars.He came back.
But in the same moment of my being starstruck, Dessin swipes Martin’s knife from his other hand, spinning around my back to align the blade against the center of my throat. The firm build of his chest pressing against my upper back. Instinctually, shying away from the sharp object against my skin, I lean into Dessin’s body. And like magnets moving magnets, his left arm slides around my waist to pull me closer. The aroma rising from his embrace—cedar and wood dust.
“I need a break,” Dessin announces to the crowd of conformists and orderlies that have formed around us, with faces wrinkled with worry lines. “Tolerating you godless people has turned out to be a full-time job.”
Should I have burst into tears? Should I be trying to fight him off?
Why am I perfectly calm?
“I’m very tired.AndI’d prefer to not have to kill all of you—it would only purchase my one-way ticket to hell.”
Martin stretches out his arm to Dessin as if that will pause his movements.
“I can’t let you walk out of here with her,” he says, sweating a ring around his collared neckline.
Dessin chuckles softly into my hair, breathing in the scent of my jasmine shampoo. “You can watch me leave with her, or you can watch her drop dead at your feet.” His words sting. For no reason at all, I convince myself he wouldn’t hurt me. I convince myself this is all for show. “Either way, I’m leaving now. There is no one on this earth that can stop me.”
His words—gospel—set in stone.
Martin fidgets with his hands, eyes dancing around the room as if someone will help make this decision for him. The room itself is so quiet. The sounds of swallowing, breathing, and stomachs grumbling are like music amplified by a grand ceiling in a cathedral.
“Good man,” Dessin says with a smile in his voice. “Now, if we’re followed, I’ll use this knife to dismember the rule breaker that decided to ignore my warning and deliver their parts to their families. Is that understood?” He uses the blade to point around the hall, receiving nods from horrified men and women.
Dessin reaches his head around to the side of my face and kisses my cheek softly, leaving a warmth like a static shock in his wake, a tingle of energy where his flesh met mine.
“Shall we?” he whispers into my ear.
20. Smoke and Mirrors
Once we’re in the stairwell,enclosed and hidden from the rest of the asylum—he tucks the knife away.
Dessin takes the lead down the stone steps, extending his hand behind him to merge with mine, his fingers slipping into the beds between each of my fingers. I’m mystified. Is this all a game to him? Is it a new form of manipulation?
The air in the twirling well is cool and dry, yet my back is slick with new drops of sweat. I’m either going to die or be defiled. But my red flags aren’t waving. They’re lying back, asleep in my mind. You’d think I’d known enough monsters in my life for those red flags to set fire in warning among my thoughts.
What if Martin retaliated? Even though Dessin held a knife to my throat, what if Martin decided not to care?
The thought tightens like a coil in my chest, burning with irritation under my skin. I tug my hand free of his.No, I will not hold your hand. You were going to slit my throat just a moment ago!
Dessin looks down at his empty hand, lifts his chin, then continues leading us down the stairs.
“Was it something I said?” An obvious smug smirk laces his words.
“I’m still trying to decide if you were bluffing or not,” I say.
He snorts. “I never bluff.”
At this, I stop. Why would I have thought otherwise? Why am I looking at him in shock? Of course he meant what he said. Of course he was going to make good on his promise to use that knife.He’s a murderer.
Noticing my lack of movement. He stops five steps below me, turning his head enough that I can see half of his face. “Not exactly, anyway. I would have done a lot worse.” He faces me head-on, looking directly into my eyes with utter certainty. “But it would have been to him. Not you.”
I nod, unsure of what else to say. I only needed to hear him say that.
We get to the bottom of the stairwell, rounding the corner to a small opening underneath the steps. He stares at the wall.
“What is it?” I ask.
He points to a rectangle on the stone. His index finger presses down on the center of the brick. A small brass key falls into his palm.
