Page 187 of Stay Scared

“I’m not doing your editing for you.”

The blade presses harder. A bead of warmth slips beneath my shirt. Rook leans against my back. The camera catches only part of how invasive the contact feels. His chest presses against my shoulder blades, one hand spreads around my throat without closing, and the knife waits beneath my ribs.

“I could open you here.”

His voice reaches me through the side of the beak.

“And they would watch.”

I swallow carefully. “You want them watching you do it.” The hand at my neck tightens until I feel each finger.

“I want them to understand.”

“No, you don’t.”

My voice comes out rougher.

“You want them to know your name.”

Rook shoves me forward. My hip strikes the camera table. The modern unit shakes. Mark moves behind him. Rook turns at the sound. Mark catches himself before the movement exposes his freed hand. The cord remains hidden beneath his palm.

I look toward the comment feed. People are screaming for him to let me go. Rook sees it too. His mask turns back toward me. “They think you are frightened.”

“I am.”

The admission catches him. I look straight at the beak. “You have a knife against me.” The blade shifts.

“They should be frightened too.”

“Then show them.”

His head tilts. I pull against the plastic restraint.

“Right now I say anything you want, and everybody watching knows why.”

Rook looks at my wrists. I can almost see the decision taking shape. His ego needs me free enough to call whatever happens next voluntary. He wants the camera to prove I stay. Rook turns the folding knife.

Cold metal slips beneath the plastic. I keep still. The edge nicks my skin before cutting through the restraint. Plastic snaps, and pain floods my shoulders as my arms drop. Before I can move, Rook catches my right wrist again. His grip crushes bone against bone.

The knife returns to my side.

“Do not confuse this with release.”

I flex my free hand. Blood has started welling where the restraint cut me. Rook turns me toward the camera.

“Speak.”

I stare into the lens. Behind him, Mark slowly draws his freed hand away from the post. I lift my bleeding wrist into frame. “This is what he needed.” Rook jerks me closer. “What?”

“He needed me untied so he could pretend whatever happens next is mine.”

His knife drives hard enough against my ribs that pain jumps through me.

“You asked to be released.”

“I wanted my hands back.”

Rook’s voice rises. “You changed the terms.”