His eyes swept the room, pausing on the lamp, the TV, the bed, then zeroing in on my face. He smiled like a wolf with a toothache. There was nothing friendly in it.
“Evening, princess,” he said. He closed the door behind him with a click that sounded way too much like a gun cocking. I didn’t answer.
He stood there for a second, just watching, letting the silence grow until I wanted to chew my own tongue off.Finally, he took a step forward and pulled a chair up next to the bed. He sat down, elbows on his knees, and leaned in until I could smell his aftershave—cheap and chemical, barely covering the stink of cigarettes and sweat.
“I hope they didn’t hurt you too bad,” he said, voice slick with mock concern. “But you make it real hard to take you alive sometimes.”
I lifted my chin, gave him the blankest stare I could muster. “You want a medal?”
He laughed, deep and ugly. “I want a lot of things. None of which involves a mouthy cunt telling me how to do my job.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The movement was careful, precise, like he was afraid I’d shatter. Or maybe he just liked toying with broken things.
His hand lingered on my jaw, thumb rubbing over the bruise that Augustine had left. His eyes narrowed, and I saw the calculation there—the tally of who’d marked me and how much they’d have to pay for it.
“You think you’re something special?” he asked. “You think running off with a Bloody Scythe makes you a rebel?”
“No,” I said, calm as I could manage. “But it sure pissed you off.”
The laugh again, louder this time. “You’re right about that.” His fingers dug into my jaw, pinching until I saw spots. “Your father wants you home by sunrise. But me?” His other hand went to his belt, slow and deliberate. “I want you to remember who you belong to.”
I spat in his face. Not a dainty spray, but a full-on glob of blood and saliva that landed just under his left eye. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t move. For a second, I thought he might hit me, but instead he wiped it off with the back of his hand, then licked it. He smiled, showing every crooked tooth.
“You’re gonna learn to appreciate me,” he said, voice flat. “You’ll figure it out, once you stop fighting. They all do.”
He leaned in closer, until our noses nearly touched. I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the web of burst blood vessels at the corner of each sclera. I could see the old scar that ran through his eyebrow and into the soft meat above his eye socket. I wanted to reach out and rip it open, just to see what would come out.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, and I could feel his breath on my face, hot and moist and sour with beer. “Your father’s had this planned for years. We marry in Durango, and every man in the state knows the Leatherbacks areuntouchable. You think you can just fuck your way out of it?”
I snorted. “Worked for my mother.”
He went stone cold. For a second, he didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Then his left hand shot to my throat and squeezed. Hard. The metal cuffs rattled as I thrashed, but he just leaned in, calm as a statue, watching me choke.
“You want to talk about mothers?” he said, voice gone dead and hollow. “Let’s talk about how yours bled out in a bathtub because she couldn’t handle being married to a man like Cutler. You think you’re stronger? You think you’re better than her?”
My eyes watered, vision tunneling, but I forced myself to stare him down. I made a sound—a growl, a curse, I’m not sure—but it was enough to make him smile.
He let go. I sagged back, coughing and gasping, tears streaming down my cheeks. He watched, savoring it.
“Here’s the real truth,” he said, voice gentle, like he was giving me a gift. “You’re mine now. You can run, you can scream, you can even try to kill yourself, but at the end of the day? You’re coming home with me. And if that Bloody Scythe bastard tries anything, I’ll slit him open and fuck you on his grave.”
I spat again, but this time it didn’t reach him. It hit the sheet, a red-brown stain spreading over the polyester.
Saint stood and shrugged off his cut. The inside was lined with knives—eight, maybe ten, each tucked into its own slit. He picked the third from the left, a slender thing with a bone handle and a blade no longer than my pinky. He flicked it open, thumb stroking the edge, and then pressed the tip to the underside of my jaw.
“You ever think about how thin the skin is, right here?” he asked, conversational. “You could bleed out in twenty seconds, if I wanted.”
I kept my mouth shut. He traced the blade down my neck, over my collarbone, stopping just above my heart.
He smiled. “You’re not scared of death. That’s what I like about you.”
He snapped the knife shut, slid it back into his cut, and turned away. For a second, I saw the muscles in his back tense, then relax, like he was getting ready for a fight that wasn’t coming. He lit a cigarette, blew the smoke in my direction, and watched me through the haze.
“You know what I think?” he said. “I think you want someone to win you. You want someone to bleed for you, to crawl through shit just to be the one who breaks you.”
I rolled my eyes. “You have a real high opinion of yourself.”
He grinned. “I’m a realist.”
He stubbed the cigarette out on the chair, then leaned over me, one hand gripping my cuffed wrists. He squeezed until the bone grated, just enough to make sure I’d remember him. Then he kissed my forehead—soft, almost fatherly. It made me want to vomit.
