Page 14 of Killing Emma

Chapter Seven

Emma

My mouth is so dry that my throat hurts, and the monster sitting two feet from me is holding everything I want right now. However, I don’t want him to give me water and then leave. I want him to talk. So, I let him sit there staring at me through that hideously creepy mask.

“Why the mask?” I ask, leaning my head back. The motion gives my shoulders a slight reprieve from the strain, but it’s not enough for true relief.

“Why not wear the mask?”

I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “Whatever. If you were going to kill me, you would’ve by now.”

He shifts forward, his body tensing. “Says who?”

“Why wear a mask if I’m going to end up dead? Why cover your identity?”

“Maybe I’m just one ugly motherfucker,” he reasons, shrugging his taut shoulders again.

“You’d be better off not wearing it. Then you might actually give me a real fright,” I snap back, glaring at him.

“You’re mouthy, Little Red.”

“You’re scared I’ll escape you, so you leave me tied to this chair.” I spit the words back at him without fear of consequence. If I’m going to survive, I have to learn his buttons. I need to know how to get to him, and it’s going to take trial and error.

And hopefully, the error won’t kill me.

He lets out a sigh. “Ready for water?”

He didn’t deny it.

“No.”

“You’re a stubborn slut.”

“I’m not a slut just because I let you get handsy,” I scoff, shaking my head. “You don’t know me. You probably just have a cute little file folder on me telling you the outside details, and maybe you stalked me and peeked through my windows like a perv. But you don’t know me. You’ll never know me.”

That irritates him.

He jumps to his feet, and comes for me, his hand wrapping around my throat and nearly cutting off my air supply. “You really wanna piss me off, Little Red?”

“That’s a shit nickname,” I rasp, glaring up at him. “Using my hair color is a cop out.”

“Open your mouth, whore.”

I peer up at him, my eyes watering from his iron grip—and I can’t help it. I smile. That’s the most unoriginal word, and evidence he doesn’t really know me. There was a whore that lived in my house, but it wasn’t me. My vision begins to blur as he depletes my oxygen entirely, and I fight to remain conscious.

“Death or open your mouth,” he growls. “Your choice.”

Unable to draw a breath, my lips part, more out of desperation for oxygen than choosing to get a drink of water. However, as soon as they’re wide enough, he shoves the bottle into my mouth.

And almost fucking drowns me.

Panic sears through my body, shaking me to my core. I cough as the water enters my airways, hacking so hard that I feel like I might throw up. He steps back, and I shiver as the icy water soaks my T-shirt.

Fucking dick.

Doing my best to settle myself, I stare at his shoes, which are some kind of engineer boots. They’re expensive, I can tell that much. I cough harder but stay focused, tears pouring down my cheeks. With a painful, shaky gasp for air, I finally cease my wrenching, but I still tremble, now freezing.

“There’s still half a bottle here.” His voice is full of amusement—and something else that I can’t pinpoint. His boot taps on the concrete floor, and my heartbeat throbs in my temple. I needed the water, but…

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