Despite her internal screaming, all that came out of her mouth was a small whimper as Blade stopped a couple of feet away from her and grinned when he saw she was staring in horror at the can.
Just like he wanted her to.
That stupid grin remained on his face as he began to shake the can.
Another whimper bubbled out, and she kept ordering herself to say something, but for some reason fear seemed to have stolen her voice, and for the life of her—and she was very aware that it was quite literally a matter of life and death for her—she couldn’t make herself talk.
What was up with that?
Okay, she’d always been quiet, intellectual people could often be introverted, she got stuck in her head too much and understood equations better than people. But she’d never been so afraid that her words just got clogged inside her and couldn’t come out.
Stepping closer, he lifted the can, gave it one final shake, and Whitney did her best to brace herself for pain she was illequipped to deal with. But much like she couldn’t brace her body, strung up as she was, she couldn’t brace her mind either, and she wasn't prepared at all for the onslaught of agony that …
Never came.
Instead, she got a spray of shaken-up soda all over her chest as Blade lowered the can at the very last second. The sticky liquid against her chest with the cool wind blowing was definitely unpleasant, but she knew she’d just dodged one major bullet.
Why?
Why had he changed his mind? It had been clear in his eyes as he watched her while he shook it up that he wanted to hurt her and yet he’d pulled back at the very last moment.
Why had he been watching her from the window most of the day? It wasn't like he’d tried to hide it from her, he had to know she could see him. Did he watch because he enjoyed seeing her suffer, knowing she was at his mercy, or for some other reason?
Taking a step away from her, for a moment, she would have sworn there was surprise in Blade’s dark eyes, almost like he hadn't made a conscious decision not to shoot those bubbles right up her nose, his body had just acted without his brain being part of the decision-making. But the look passed quickly, and she assumed she’d just imagined it, her mind conjuring up what it wanted to see.
Was that part of torturing someone? Making them long for an ally, even if the only one around was their tormentor?
“Been a nice day, sunny,” Blade said, his tone smooth and conversational, no indication in it at all that he was her captor and she was his helpless little victim. “Weather forecast says we’re getting some snow tonight, though. Think you can handle a little snow, darlin’?”
Again, the way he said the word darling rankled. He already had her strung up, why did he have to mock her on top of it? Wasn't it enough that he could do anything he wanted to her?Was it necessary to humiliate her as well? If he knew the whole truth about what had happened, would he really be okay with everything he was doing to her?
Whitney badly wanted to say he wouldn't, but she knew better than anyone else what had been done to him and the rest of the test subjects. Their ability to access their consciences had been disrupted, and their emotions deadened. Not removed, both were still there, they knew right from wrong and they could feel guilt and remorse, and they could still feel the full range of emotions, but the drugs accentuated the anger and minimized everything else.
“Too bad it’s not summer, long hot days out here in the sun would really suck. Then again, I’ve always preferred the cold to the heat,” Blade continued to talk as he spun the handle of his knife between his fingers.
Hot or cold, with the modifications the drugs had done to his system, he could withstand both much better than she could.
“Maybe throw in a nice summer storm, love that smell after rain.”
“Petrichor,” she blurted out without conscious thought. Her brain was full of random facts, and she was prone to spouting them at random times because she just didn't do well in social settings and got nervous.
Eyebrows rising, obviously surprised by her suddenly talking, Whitney found her cheeks heating. She’d gotten her voice back it seemed, but she’d said something stupid that wasn't at all necessary right now.
“The name of the smell after rain,” she added somewhat lamely.
“So she does talk,” Blade said as he straightened and took a step toward her.
Her stomach chose that particular moment to grumble loudly. She hadn't just not eaten today because she’d beenhanging from a tree, she hadn't eaten much for days, not since she made the decision to go to Cassandra Charleston and try to warn the guys of what was coming. Whenever she got too anxious, she got a ball of nausea sitting heavily in her stomach, and it stole her appetite.
“Hungry are we, darlin’?” Blade smirked, like he took pleasure in every little bit of discomfort she suffered. Which he probably did.
“Borborygmi,” she murmured softly.
“What?”
“Borborygmi,” she repeated. “That’s the name for the sound your stomach makes when it rumbles.”
Her useless fact was just that, useless, but for some reason Blade’s calm veneer snapped, and a snarl marred his otherwise handsome features as he moved quicker than she’d ever seen anyone move, until he was standing right in front of her, the blade of his knife pressed against her neck.
