Page 99 of Overcast

“You’re baiting me,” I snap, balling my hands into fists. “You’re not—”

“I’m not, what?” He looms closer, making the room smaller. Composing my throat to close up and make it hard to breathe. “You asked a question—finally—and I answered it.”

“That doesn’t count.”

"Was it a question?" I inhale a deep breath. "Thought so. Now—" His fingertips graze my forearms, and I jerk back from the feel of him.

His hands are weapons, and I'll never forget what he's done to me with them. His being in the same room with me is distressing enough.

He takes a step back, giving me the space I need, but he doesn't look happy about it.

A muscle in his jaw just ticked, and he averts his eyes from me, looking at something in the room.

“I told you that I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he mutters, his body tense.

Like you did before?

Like I’m supposed to count on that.

Slowly reaching behind him, he pulls out a knife, and I gasp loudly—can't help it. My thigh that he penetrated with said weapon begins to throb on command, and I stumble back, hitting the edge of the mattress.

Flipping it in his hand, he palms it and extends his arm. “Take it.”

I stare at it like it’s about to come alive and do some weird Harry Potter thing where it shoots off his hand and stabs me again.

"Stormi," he croons softly. "Take it." Reaching out further, he offers it to me again. I shake my head.

Yep, he's out of his mind.

The hairs that stand on end all over my body warn me that this is a trick. It's some sick ploy to make me do exactly what he wants.

Intimidation, I never thought much of the word until I landed up in his possession. Now I completely understand its meaning and the way it makes you feel.

Emric stretches out his arm, softly grasping mine and places the weapon in my palm before wrapping my fingers around it.

I've felt this knife before, but I don't want it to become a normal occurrence where I'm carrying around daggers or other sharp objects.

“Right here—” His left hand points to the column of his neck. “—carotid artery, flip the blade open.” I don't. “Do it.” His voice is commanding but delicate, waiting for me to follow his lead in attempts to make me feel comfortable. “You stabbed me before, you’ll be fine. Just need to hit higher next time.”

An influx of guilt hits me, and while I apprehend that it shouldn't be there, it is. My gaze flicks to his shoulder, but it's covered by his gray shirt.

“It’s fine,” he claims. “Don’t feel bad about it.”

“I don’t,” I quickly retort before taking a step back. “Why would I?”

“Because you’re not like me.”

I perk a brow. “I did exactly what you did to me.”

“But I wanted to kill you,” he vouches, turning my skin cold. “Open the knife, Stormi, and I’ll answer your statement-question.”

Tilting the blade, I find the lever, and the sharp metal pops out with a snap.

“I won’t hurt your father,” he alludes. “If you tell me what your relationship is with Hollis.”

I grip the knife tighter in my hand. “That...wasn’t the deal.”

Staring at me for a moment, he finally nods. “You’re right. I won’t kill your father.”

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