Page 13 of The Prey

It's all perfectly organized, thanks to me. Not that it wasn't before I started working here and doing most of the laundry—it’s just that no one else ever touches his things. According to the kitchen staff, I’m one of the few workers who gets to enter his room and closet.

I skim my fingers across the fabrics, watching the sheen of the overhead recessed lighting reflect off their surfaces. A box on the far side of the closet holds a line of watches, cuff links, and perfectly wound belts.

My gaze catches on something shiny next to the box. I shouldn’t…but I do—what’s that saying, curiosity killed the cat?

Consider me dead.

I move closer as if I’m tethered to the object, and the glint of a knife edge gleams back at me. I nearly gasp as I take in the sight of it. It’s eight inches long, has a black handle, and a long, shiny, silver point. I’ve never seen a knife like this before; then again, who the hell needs a knife like that?

Don’t do it. Do not touch it.

Against my better judgment, my hand moves on its own, and I gently pick up the knife. Grasping the handle tightly, I lift it toward my face to get a better look at it. The blade is shiny, without a speck of dirt, blood, or any imperfection.

What does Sebastian use a knife like this for?

I think back to some of the rumors I've heard about him from those who attend Oakmount, and even some of the staff. It’s been said that he has a thing for blood and pain in the bedroom, among other darker things I refuse to think about. A shiver ripples down my spine at the thought. Okay, I need to stop thinking about this. Even as the memory of scrubbing blood out of Egyptian cotton rises up.

I swallow thickly, my attention gravitating back to the shimmering blade. They’re just rumors, Elyse. That’s what I tell myself, even if I know better.

What if it were me he was using this knife on? No, that’s a foolish thought. He might look at me with heat flickering in his eyes every now and then, but that means nothing, not when he’s almost always cursing my name or shoving me around to do his bidding.

I'd rather climb in bed with a panther than sleep with him. Hell, I’d probably climb out with fewer injuries.

I tighten my grip on the handle and stare over the edge of the blade, my gaze darting to the fancy line of clothes hanging just inches away. I don’t know a damn thing about this knife, but I know the blade will cut through wool and cotton like butter. I can feel it. Sense it.

A smile tugs at my lips. And wouldn't that be the best payback for how he treated me? How he made me watch while he tore up my hard work. Ahhh, yes. Let's see how he likes having his hard work destroyed.

Before I can think better of it or stop myself, I lunge forward and stab the knife into the breast of the expensive designer suit, piercing through the plastic of the dry cleaning bag and into the material. It takes nothing but a flick of the wrist to drag the blade down, shredding the wool all the way to the edge of the jacket and snagging the pants as I pull it free.

It feels good. Too good.

I pause, the knife suddenly feeling heavier in my hand as I reflect on what I’ve done.

This suit probably costs thousands, yet all I can think is that it’s just another dollar added to the growing debt I’ll never be able to repay. It’s wrong. I know it. My mind orders me to stop, that the repercussions aren’t worth the deranged man's wrath, but I don’t care.

I’m on a high, and making certain Sebastian knows where I stand is all that matters to me. Turning my attention to the next suit, I do the same thing, stabbing the knife deep and hard until the hilt meets the fabric—no plastic on this one. Watching the blade slice through the rich material is almost mesmerizing. It’s petty revenge, but revenge at its best. I attack the next two suits, slicing cleanly through them. Each suit is a semblance of ribbons now, and that fills my chest with pride.

My hand shakes as I remove the knife from the last one, a shiny gray material that catches in the light. I've seen him wearing this exact one, and I squeeze my eyes closed against the memory of how it spread across his broad, football-honed shoulders. He looked so charming and gorgeous in it.

Not anymore. Charming and gorgeous on the outside.

I take a step back, admiring the damage I’ve caused.

But venom and tar on the inside.

It dawns on me then that he’s probably going to kill me in retaliation. Then skin me and wear my skin as payback for destroying his expensive clothes. It’s inevitable at this point. There would be no way to hide the evidence of what I’ve done. Better to own up to it.

I look at the other side of the closet. Those clothes are still pristine, without a single wrinkle. Would it be too much to think that he might not notice? At least until we get back.

I can always hope, right? I turn on my heels and lean forward to place the knife back by the box of cuff links, but as I do, I lose my grip, and my thumb slips off the handle, pressing against the sharp blade. I pull my finger away instantly, but it’s too late. The blade has already cut through my skin, and a stinging sensation followed by pain zings along my finger.

“Dammit!” I gasp and shove my thumb into my mouth, sucking on the wound so I don’t drip blood all over the floor. It's not deep, thankfully, but I know the blade itself is sharp enough that it could’ve very well cut my finger off.

Because of my anxiety and years of dealing with my father’s alcoholism, I’m attuned to every little sound. It’s why when I hear a scuffle just outside the door, I freeze, my thumb still in my mouth. Fear latches onto me, but instinct keeps me in place.

I'm dead. He's going to kill me.

Slowly, I return to my senses and place the knife back in its hiding spot. Then I do the only thing I know how to do. I run. I race out of the closet and shut the door, but it bounces off the frame instead of closing all the way, leaving it cracked open. One glance inside, and I’ll be ruined. Dammit, Elyse. Why did you have to be so dumb?

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