“What are you going to do?” Her bulging eyes speared the knife in his hand. “You can’t kill me—I don’t want to die,” she pleaded, uncaring of how desperate she sounded, her mindless shrieks absorbed by the gray stone walls.
Closing her eyes, she forced her brain to shut the hell up, stop whimpering like a helpless victim, and focus on getting free. But her mind wandered to a bedroom in a manor in another lifetime.
Logan....
Did he know she was gone?
Did he care?
Focus!
She had to find a way to escape.
Daring to lift her head and look about the dank room again, she spied the end of a table peeking out from the doorway to another room. There was a body on it—at least she assumed it was a full body. It could very well have been just the foot, but she didn’t want to know why Angelous would have a severed foot lying around. Did he have a foot fetish?
She shuddered.
She looked over at him watching her intently.
A slow smile crept across his face, and a deep rumble of laughter burst from his chest.
“Ah, dear, sweet Roselyn. She was a quiet beauty. Easily enticed and easily controlled.”
This guy was killer-cult crazy.
“What do you mean? Was she working for you the whole time?”
He nodded. “A few months before you arrived, I took interest in Roselyn. She was unassuming, pretty, and seemed like the kind of sheep I could lead to the edge of the cliff, dangle over the edge, and she’d still bleat for more. By the time I’d finished carving the flesh around her meager breasts, she was mine. She did all I asked of her.”
Like stealing my glove and slashing a painting. Oh, God.
The quiet lady’s maid earned her trust, but all the while was setting her up for rejection and separation from the one man who could save her.
Angelous stood over her again, holding his knife up for her inspection.
“Enough talk of the lesser canvas. Let’s speak of more interesting things.” He turned the knife over in his hand,gazing longingly at its shiny length. “This is a seax, a blade of extraordinary craftsmanship. Made by my ancestors and passed down through blood and conquest to me. It is the most prized of my collection.” His eyes brightened and his voice grew heavy with an unidentifiable emotion, and she knew she had a chance.
Keep him talking. Get him distracted. Maybe help will get here in time.
She cleared her throat. “Collection? Of knives?”
He smiled. “Yes, I have a rather large and varied assortment of knives.” He was proud and excited about what he’d get to do with them.
“Oh, that’s impressive, and quite unique.”
Come on Haven, stoke his ego and keep him talking about himself—isn’t that what sociopaths like to do?
“I’ve never met a knife collector before. It must be amazing.” The lie burned her throat, but she’d damn well live a mute than die screaming.
He looked at her with a hint of suspicion in his expression, but he had acaptiveaudience, he might as well expound on the greatness of his shiny knives.
“Yes, it is very impressive, but few have seen the extent. Those who have viewed items from my collection are usually bound, helpless, to the searing caress of the blade’s edge. Just as you are now.”
Ice spiders skittered under her skin.
Keep it together.
“You are the canvas on which I will carve my masterpiece. I know you fear it and fight it now, but once I begin my work, you will know nothing but utter elation. You will be the very thing on which God’s perfection is wrought.” He glanced down at her body and smiled. “Do not fear, Miss Edwards, the pain is worth it.”
