I wait for pain to blossom under the knife, but he must be using the blunt edge, because none comes. I wiggle again, and my stomach squeaks against the floor.
“I knew you’d still be a fighter.” His voice is pitched low, making warning sounds go off in my head. Another wave a panic washes over me, and I begin to beg.
“Please, please.” I don’t even know what to promise, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” He pulls back enough so I’m able to fully expand my lungs, but he’s still covering my back. “Sorry for what?” I feel the blade stroking my cheek again.
“Everything,” I say too quickly, and he clicks his tongue.
“Not good enough.”
“Sorry I sprayed you.”
“Oh, you should be sorry about that.” He rubs his face against the back of my head roughly, shoving my cheek harder against the floor, and a chemical smell wafts off him. “Speaking of…” He sits up so he’s straddling my waist, and all of his weight ends up centered on my butt and hips. Deftly, he jerks up the back of my shirt, grabs the can that’s halfway down my pants, and rips it free, scratching my back in the process. I bite my lips to stop myself from complaining. The can skitters to the side several feet away.
“Not falling for that again.” He leans forward, pressing me to the floor and making my ribs scream in pain, but at least the knife near my face is absent. I jerk when his hand grazes the bare skin of my side dangerously close to my breast.
“Please don’t.” I shrink away from his touch, cursing the way I can feel the fabric of his clothes and the heat of his body pressed against mine.
Instead of stopping, he digs his fingers into my side and pinches, making me yelp. “You like that better?” he purrs with excitement. I roll my lips in and squeeze my eyes shut, but it can’t erase him or his touch. I need to keep him talking. Maybe then I can figure out a way to get out of this.
“I’m sorry I was mean to you.”
He pulls in a breath. “What?”
“I remember you. I wasn’t nice,” I admit, knowing I don’t have anything to apologize for. He terrorized me as a child. We had just moved in with my grandparents after Mom died. I was miserable, and it’s like he saw that in me and wanted more.
“You remember me?” He sounds young again, almost unsure.
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Eddie,” I croak.
“Don’t call me that!” he snaps, jabbing his fingers into my side and making me wince.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry. What should I call you?” I mumble through tears.
“Johnathan,” he answers after a short pause. “I’m not that boy anymore.”
“Sorry, Johnathan.” I try to sound calm, but it isn’t easy considering the position we’re in. “I was really sad. My mom died, and we had to move,” I explain, but the reality is I was a jerk to him because he was weird and mean to me.
“I know. My mom was dead too, but you didn’t care about that, did you?” He mashes his head into mine again, smashing my face harder against the floor.
“I didn’t know.”
“You should have, but no one asked, not even the people who knew her. She was just gone one day. No body fucking cared what Edward did to her.” He’s getting agitated, not making any sense.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask about your mom.”
“You should be glad I didn’t let Edward get a hold of you. He would have split you in two. Disgusting son of a bitch,” he grits out while rubbing his hands over my sides in a way that leaves no question that what he’s thinking and saying don’t come close to matching up.
“Thank you,” I whimper. That makes him pause. “I’m lucky you were there.”
“Yeah, you were, but you were an ungrateful bitch.”
I nod, unable to speak but wanting to agree if it makes him happy. “Your sister remembered me too. Not right away, but she was much quicker than you.”
“Is that why…” I can’t finish the sentence.
“Is that why I killed her?” he supplies conversationally. “No. I would have gutted her either way, but it did make things more interesting. She noticed me, you know. When everyone else looked past me, she noticed. Maybe I should have killed you first and saved her for later.”
