“Hold your tongue before I let my shears do that for you,” I snapped.
Luka stepped forward, his shadow casting over me.
I refused to look his way, his shadow cast over the glasses as I handled them.
Then, a thud, and a hand on my calf.
I glanced down at Luka.
The view of him on his knees painted an intimate picture of his silent suffering, only now beginning to surface like ink bleeding through a page. He looked unwell. The waterlines of his eyeswere pale, making the skin around his eyes red and tired. His skin was ashen and missing the tanned warmth he was undeservedly known for. His hand on my thigh had a slight tremor, an anxious tick. Not that I cared for his well-being, but he didn’t look like he was in any sort of shape to fight about anything. The image of him looking this pathetic did brighten my mood, though.
“Alina...” He swallowed thickly, his voice a dry rasp. “You need my help.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“Proshu,” he pleaded, looking as if keeping eye contact visibly pained him. “I need to eat. I’ll... do anything. Name it and it’s done. I don’t want to be your enemy.”
“I don’t want anything from you. Not your apologies, not your pleas, certainly not your performance.”
“Alina, you will only get this once.” His hand gripped my leg, his nails digging into my skin, almost enough to make a mark on my skin through my skirt and stocking. “I am begging you. Take out my tongue, break my knees, rip out my fangs monthly if it means we can move on.”
I tapped my foot, crossing my arms.
He moved his hands up my leg, bunching the skirt in his grip, clasping his hands above my knee. “Please, let me eat.” The words whispered against my leg, his eyes staring up at me through his lashes, a starved sort of depravity to them.
I stepped away without warning, and he stumbled forward.
I opened a drawer of the workbench. “You want to make it up to me?” A gleeful hum warmed in the back of my throat, a jump of excitement in the pit of my stomach.
He slowly rose to his feet, wary of the excitement laced in my words.
I plucked a small paper box from the desk, slapping the drawer shut. I stepped to the middle of the room, one slow step at a time.I opened my palm to look at the small box, sliding it open like a matchbox. Dozens of small nails were neatly stacked. I looked over to Luka. “Strip.”
“Pardon?”
“Clothes off.”
“I’m not?—”
“Luka.” I shook my head slowly. “You don’t want me to be your trainer.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he glanced awkwardly at the other subjects before undoing his shirt, then his trousers, just the under layer, and then there was nothing left. At least he would have the comfort of not being the only unclothed thing in the room.
Fleetingly, I saw Viktor. Awkward, unsure, modest—but this time it wasreal. He shrugged his shirt off those broad shoulders, taking extra time with the buttons before folding it modestly over the chair. His torso appeared incredibly lean, the fibers of muscle rippling subtly under the skin. A lethal build is of no use when malnourished and dehydrated, I suppose.
He turned his body away from me.
Isn’t fun being on the receiving end, is it?
I tipped my palm and let the small nails chime as they reached the floor, in a small, scattered pile.
The noise made him look over his shoulder, delaying his putting his trousers and undergarments neatly with his shirt.
“Come,” I said, no inflection, void of any emotion.
Luka knew what it meant, but he didn’t fight it. He knew why this was happening. It was only fair.
He took each step carefully, meeting me at the center of the room, awkwardly covering himself. He raised his chin in the air, with one last puff of dignity, of defiance.
