“What if we killed him?”
Did they? Would they? I know Ora cracks jokes, but I don’t think she ever means it.
Or… she totally means it and I’m just naïve.
I walk around the breakfast table in the kitchen with thoughts weighing on my mind. Like, maybe I really am the problem. Maybe eliminating myself would let them escape without guilt or extra baggage.
I don’t consciously hang my eyes on the knife block. The serrated blades sing to me. They calm my psyche, replace my droning voice with a lullaby that finally makes the soil I’m sinking in feel peaceful. Enough to lock me in place directly in front of the wooden vessel and steel handles.
Warmth blankets my back, arousing my senses with that fresh and sweet scent that travels through heat. “Your cuts won’t be pretty with those.”
I knew it was him. But Razor’s voice whispering something sinful over my shoulder, directly in my ear, triggers a shudder down my spine. “I do it slow enough to make it pretty,” I whisper back, and as the last word leaves my tongue, a dose of panic is ripping up my navel and lobotomizing me.
His deep exhale jets down my neck, inducing taut goosebumps up my arms.
I cross them over my stomach to veil the reaction, though it gives him more access to skim his fingers over my side.
Slowly. The very tips drawing precise lines that cut me deeper than the blades ever have.
“Like this?”
He’s pulling my strings, controlling every dip and waver that influences a tormenting thrum. I writhe and shift my feet, trying my hardest not to look at him, but my jagged edges are curious about his.
I can’t nod and tell him exactly how I do it. But I manage to turn my head to look at him, which puts us breath to breath.
He’s harboring me. And it doesn’t feel like it’s for secrecy. He’s using himself as a possessive cage, like the protective affection I often seen Duse displaying for Gwen, but with a sharpness in his gaze that promises to hurt me for as long as I like it.
“Why did you do yours so deep?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t seem to mind, though. His palm is flattening around my rib, growing controlling enough to collect my shirt, which has his fingers slipping right beneath the hem. “I just wanted pain.”
“Why?” my brows flatten.
“Why?” he echoes, bringing his other hand to my hip. “If I told you the reason why, I don’t think you’d be willing to talk to me ever again. Then we’d have some real problems.”
“I told you about mine and you stayed,” I whisper, trying to convince him that I’m safe for him.
“Don’t do that to me.” He steps flush against my backside, lowering his eyes to my mouth. “We have things to do. And I’m not gonna get any of it done if you keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He flicks back up. “Like you care.”
“I do.” Annoyance simmers, encouraging the draining thrum between my thighs to pressurize into something primal.
It’s innate. Now that my body has felt traces of his, it’s becoming too dependent on more. Like, he’s the blade that can give me death without losing my life.
“I wish that I had Razor’s girl!” Xene sings abruptly, startling me into a spin, my lower back slamming into the counter. “I wish that I had Razor’s girl! Da-da-da! Where can I find a woman like that?!”
Swallowing cement, my palms tack to the countertop behind me, registering how pinned I am.
Razor smiles evilly, keeping his back to Xene bulleting air between his teeth for a dramatic guitar solo. “Razor’s girl,” he taunts, visually drawing out the image of the food chain at work while locking his hands to the counter on either side of me.
“No, fuck you guys. Bunny’s my girl,” Ora rasps, her slippers scuffling into the kitchen.
I can’t see much around Razor’s lean frame other than Ora’s hair swinging around. She squeals and giggles, but I’m tuning out of what her and Xene are saying. I’m having to manually breathe and keep my focus on the pools of trauma hunting more pain.
“You ready to ride?” Razor asks, a subtle hoarseness making his tone desperate.
