It’s not her strength that has me frozen. It’s her unpredictability. There’s a storm behind those eyes and I can’t see where it’s headed. She’s a loaded weapon without a safety, and I have no idea if I’m the target or just in the way.
I force myself to stand tall, to keep my shoulders square, even as my pulse pounds in my ears. She’s not just close—she’s inside my head, stealing the air, making it impossible to think clearly.
“It does matter,” she whispers, her voice cutting through me like a blade. “You’re mine now, until I figure out what to do with you.”
There’s a flash—a metallic glint catches the dim light before the cold edge of the blade presses against my bare chest.
Right over my heart.
My breath stutters, panic clawing at my throat, but I shove it down, forcing myself to stay present. She’s testing me, playing with me, like a cat with a mouse. I can’t let her win, can’t let her see how close I am to unraveling.
I need to turn this around.
“Do you even know who I am?” My voice is steady, low, as I grip the hand holding the knife, my fingers curling tight until the blade digs into my skin. The sting fuels me, a sharp reminder to stay focused.
“Not yet.” She smiles, completely unshaken, like she’s enjoying this far too much.
She’s a goddamn psychopath.
“I’m a powerful person, which means I know a lot of powerful people. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
She narrows her eyes, the edges of her wig slipping, exposing strands of blonde hair beneath. “I know a lot of powerful people, too.”
Despite the suffocating fear crawling up my throat, I step closer, meeting her head-on. “I’m going to ask you one last time. What do you want for my silence?”
“Why wouldn’t you expose me?”
“Because I don’t give a damn about you or whatever fucked up game you’re playing.”
“You don’t care about being a good person?”
My pulse quickens. What is this? Some kind of psychotic test? I don’t know what kind of game this bitch is playing, but I’m two seconds away from turning the knife and twisting it in her throat.
“I’m not a good person,” I spit out, the words biting, hollow. “And I’m not afraid to hurt you.”
She studies me, as if she’s peeling back layers of my soul, searching for something buried deep. Then, without a word, she exhales and lowers the knife. My fingers relax instinctively, but the reprieve is short-lived. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses the blade into the air. Instinct takes over—I snatch it mid-flight, the cold steel biting into my palm as my breath hitches.
Her chilling laugh cuts through the tension. “I don’t know what I want from you yet,” she whispers, her voice laced withdark promise. Her eyes gleam with danger, like she’s already decided I’m her next game. “But trust me… you’ll find out soon enough.”
Before I can respond, she melts into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as she arrived. The knife feels heavier now, impossibly so, as if it carries all the weight of what she’s left behind. My chest tightens as I stare down at the weapon.
And then it hits me.
My fingerprints. All over a murderer’s blade. One she’s likely used in the past to kill people with.
The realization slams into me like a freight train. I drop the knife as though it’s scalding hot, my mind racing. Panic surges, but I force myself to crouch down, grabbing the blade again. Wiping it hastily against my pants, I struggle to think clearly.
This can’t be happening.
Go back. Tell Tristan. He’d know what to do. Call Dominik.
I can’t. Tristan wouldn’t understand and I don’t trust him enough for this. And Dominik—where the hell was he? If he’d seen any of this, he would’ve charged in, wouldn’t he? My mind races, chaotic flashes of worst-case scenarios filling the void. Too many endings, and none of them are good.
I don’t know how long I stand there, frozen in place, before the shaking begins. It starts small—a tremor in my hands—but soon, it takes over, rippling through me in uncontrollable waves. The weight of the knife, the shadows, her laugh—it all presses down, suffocating.
Move.
My mind screams at me to do something. Anything.
