Page 8 of Necessary Cruelty

A ready blade has always been available when he needs it.

One of his hands holds down my wrist while the other presses the point against the sensitive skin on the inside of my upper arm, just below three rows of identical scars.

The pain is sharp and immediate, but I don’t make a sound. My skin parts like butter, and I can only watch as blood beads at the bottom of the cut and then trails downward. They release me as soon as it’s done, but I don’t move from the chair.

I used to fight them, but nothing good ever came of that.

There aren’t words to describe how I feel about Vincent Cortland.

Hate isn’t evocative enough, and fear is too shallow, although that’s usually the predominant emotion. Putting a name to any of the other things I feel would just give him more power over me than he already has.

Because it isn’t fear that keeps me in line.

The worst thing the Vice Lords can do to me is deliver a little pain. And killing me would just be putting me out of my misery, so there is little threat there. No, it isn’t fear or even hate that keeps me silent.

It’s guilt.

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