I feel the warm blood from his thigh against me, and revulsion curdles in my stomach.
My fingers find the hard cast of his mask and I jerk itup, throwing it to the side as his face is exposed to me for the first time.
He is no longer choking me.
He, like Sullen when he is bare, freezes.
Bright eyes, the spitting image of Cosmo’s in shape, meet mine, and they are wide with fear, his pupils nearly obliterating the light color.
I cannot breathe.
There are scars over every inch of his face.
The outline of his bone structure is so similar to Cosmo’s, but there is age, and there are thin lines of scarseverywhere.Crisscrossing down his cheekbones, over his lips, along histemple, down his throat, I assume, the way they disappear. There is so much scar tissue of pale pink, his complexion itself is almost hidden.
My fingers dig into his shoulders to keep him away from me, but neither of us move now.
My heart swells with sorrow.
Did he do this to himself? Did Stein do it?
But I think of the way Sullen immediately surrendered to his father when Stein mentioned giving me to Klein. The way he sounded so broken. Afraid.For me.
What have you done to my monster?
A scream leaves my lips and I dig at his skin, my nails driving into the scars, ridged beneath my fingertips.
This is his cue, too.
He closes his hands around my throat, his nostrils flaring.
I dig into his eyes, trying not to think of Cosmo.
And when I begin to pop one out by putting pressure along the inner corner, scooping my thumbnail as if my life depends on it—because it does—he cries out and his grip loosens. I take down deep breaths and arch my hips in an attempt to throw him off me.
He seems to go limp, a groan leaving his lips that sounds sexual.
I think I am going to throw up, but I manage, by some miracle Writhe does not deserve, to edge out from beneath him. I flip onto my stomach and start to crawl, his body still over my calves, but I am nearly free. With the candlelight flickering along the dirt and grime beneath me, I see the gun.
My gun.
I stretch my fingers as far as they will go. The bruises along my shoulder blade lights up and everything hurts, especially as Klein digs his fingers into my ankle bones, but I keep stretching to the point it feels as if I may separate my own ribs.
My fingertips graze the gun.
Another scream leaves me, this one frustration.
I dig one hand into the dirt and use it to elongate my body further as I kick back as hard as I can, my foot connecting with some part of Klein.
His grip loosens.
Yes.
I get to my knees and I crawl as fast as I fucking can and grab the gun. It is only in my grip a second when Klein’s hands come around my calves again and he tugs medownin the dirt.
I use one palm as leverage to flip myself beneath him, because this time, I have a weapon. When I am on my back and staring up at him, I press the barrel to his temple.
His nostrils flare.
