Multiple people. He's killed multiple people today and he's standing in my doorway like it's nothing. Like murder is just another item on his to-do list.
The worst part? Some sick, twisted corner of my brain whispers that he did it for me. That every violent thing, every terrible choice, it's all wrapped up in this obsession with keeping me safe.
As if killing people keeps anyone safe.
"You're insane," I say.
"Probably." He steps into the room. The door shuts behind him. "But I just started a war with the Bratva to keep you. So insane doesn't begin to cover what I am."
I stand up, turning to face him. Rage cuts through the exhaustion. "I don't want to be anywhere near a war. I want to go home. I want my life back. I want?—"
"Your life back?" He laughs, and it's a harsh, ugly sound. "That shitty apartment where anyone could break in? That job where you work yourself to death for people who don't give a fuck if you live or die? That's the life you want back?"
"It's my life. Mine. Not yours."
"Wrong." He moves closer. "It stopped being yours the moment I decided you were mine. You belong to me. Your past, your present, your future—all mine."
"You can't just decide that!"
"I already did." His voice drops lower. "Months ago. You just didn't know it."
The certainty in his voice makes rage shake through me. I cross the room until I'm right in front of him. "This is insane. You've kidnapped me. You're keeping me a prisoner. You killed people today and you're standing here like it's normal?—"
"It is normal. For me." He doesn't back away. Doesn't flinch. "I'm a killer, Francesca. I've been killing people since I was a teenager. That's what I am. That's what you saw in that ER when you didn’t report that gunshot wound."
"I didn't know?—"
"Yes, you did." He moves fast, fingers wrapping around my wrist hard enough to bruise. "You knew exactly what I was and you saved me anyway. You protected me. You lied on the report… made sure the cops didn’t know anything. You made your choice back then. Now you have to live with it."
I try to pull away but his grip tightens. "Let go of me."
"No." He drags me closer until we're inches apart. "You don't get to run anymore. You don't get to pretend this isn't what you want. You don't get to lie to yourself about what you feel when you look at me."
"I hate you," I whisper, hoping I can at least convince myself that it's true.
"Liar." His other hand slides into my hair, twisting tight enough that my scalp burns. "You're terrified of how much you want this. Want me. The monster who kills for you. The killer who'd burn down the whole fucking city to keep you."
"You're delusional."
"Or maybe you are. Maybe you're lying to yourself. About what makes you wet when you look at me. About why you haven't screamed for help even once since I brought you here."
"I tried to escape?—"
"Halfheartedly." He tightens the grip in my hair until water pricks my eyes. "You tested the locks. You checked the windows. But you never really tried to leave. Because deep down you know the truth. You're safer in the monster's cage than you ever were in that apartment. And you fucking love that I'm the monster keeping you."
"That's not?—"
"Yes, it is." He's right in my face now, close enough that I can smell smoke and gunpowder and blood underneath his cologne. "You want to be owned, claimed, kept. You're just too scared to admit it."
My stomach growls.
"You haven't eaten."
"I'm fine."
"You're hungry. When did you last eat?"
"Breakfast."
