Anderson almost smiles. He takes a step closer, studying me. “A beautiful display, indeed.”
I swallow.
His voice changes, becomes soft. Gentle. “You would never betray me, would you, Juliette?”
“No, sir,” I say quickly. “Never.”
“Tell me something,” he says, lifting his hand to my face. The backs of his knuckles graze my cheek, trail down my jawline. “Would you die for me?”
My heart is thundering in my chest. “Yes, sir.”
He takes my face in his hand now, his thumb brushing, gently, across my chin. “Would you do anything for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet, you deliberately disobeyed me.” He drops his hand. My face feels suddenly cold. “I asked you to wait outside,” he says quietly. “I did not ask you to wander. I did not ask you to speak. I did not ask you to think for yourself or to save anyone who claimed to need saving. Did I?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you forget,” he says, “that I am your master?”
“No, sir.”
“Liar,” he cries.
My heart is in my throat. I swallow hard. Say nothing.
“I will ask you one more time,” he says, locking eyes with me. “Did you forget that I am your master?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
His eyes flash. “Should I remind you, Juliette? Should I remind you to whom you owe your life and your loyalty?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, but I sound breathless. I feel sick with fear. Feverish. Heat prickles my skin.
He retrieves a blade from inside his jacket pocket. Carefully, he unfolds it, the metal glinting in the neon light.
He presses the hilt into my right hand.
He takes my left hand and explores it with both of his own, tracing the lines of my palm and the shapes of my fingers, the seams of my knuckles. Sensations spiral through me, wonderful and horrible.
He presses down lightly on my index finger. He meets my eyes.
“This one,” he says. “Give it to me.”
My heart is in my throat. In my gut. Beating behind my eyes.
“Cut it off. Place it in my hand. And all will be forgiven.” “Yes, sir,” I whisper.
With shaking hands, I press the blade to the tender skin at the base of my finger. The blade is so sharp it pierces the flesh instantly, and with a stifled, agonized cry I press it deeper, hesitating only when I feel resistance. Knife against bone. The pain explodes through me, blinding me.
I fall on one knee.
There’s blood everywhere.
I’m breathing so hard I’m heaving, trying desperately not to vomit from either the pain or the horror. I clench my teeth so hard it sends shocks of fresh pain upward, straight to my brain, and the distraction is helpful. I have to press my bloodied hand against the dirty floor to keep it steady, but with one final, desperate cry, I cut through the bone.
The knife falls from my trembling hand, clattering to the floor. My index finger is still hanging on to my hand by a single scrap of flesh, and I rip it off in a quick, violent motion. My body is shaking so excessively I can hardly stand, but somehow I manage to deposit the finger in Anderson’s outstretched palm before collapsing to the ground.
