Page 13 of By Sin To Atone

Where the fuck did she get a knife? I had her bag and coat pockets searched.

“You’re going to make a mess on the carpet,” I say, my voice a deep timbre vibrating against her ear. She shudders and her fear, the smell of it, the presence of it, it stirs that darkness inside me that lies dormant, but there. Always there. “Drop it,” I tell her.

“Fuck you.” She rams the elbow of her free arm into my stomach. A fighter. Like I thought. But no match for me.

“That wasn’t very nice, Blue.” I grip her free arm, whirl her around, slam her back into the wall.

She grunts, her head bouncing off, and drops the knife. She’s disoriented. I watch her blink, give her a minute for her eyes to slowly refocus on my face. They’re pretty. A deep, cerulean blue several shades lighter than her hair. And as her pupils refocus, they grow dark with fury. Not fear. Or maybe that’s there too, beneath the fury.

“You’re going to stop fighting me now, Blue. And you’re going to get on your knees and put your hands behind your head. You hear me?”

“Go fuck yourself, asshole.”

One corner of my mouth curves upward. I didn’t think I’d enjoy this as much as I am.

I loosen my hold on her wrists. I’ll let her run. Give chase. I can outrun her. Overpower her. Those things aren’t an issue. She can’t weigh more than a-hundred-and-ten-pounds soaking wet. I’ll let her wear herself out because this one is not going down easy.

But when she tugs her arms free, she doesn’t run or try to get away from me, like I expect. She grips my arms instead and attempts to knee me in the groin. I catch her leg between my thighs and let her have her little fight. Let her think she has some control in this.

She doesn’t.

She wrestles, tries to scoot past me this way and that. She gets to the door and out into the hallway. She’s almost to the stairs when I catch up with her, tugging her backward against my chest by her hair.

“Blue.” I shift my grip to her arms and lean down toward her ear. Before I can say anything, though, she drops her head then slams it backward. I turn my face just in time, so she hits my jaw and not my nose. That would have hurt.

I growl, irritated.

“That wasn’t very nice.”

I lift her over my shoulder. She’s light as a feather. She yelps. I smack her ass and she pounds against my back as I walk her back into the small bedroom. I drop her on her ass and wait for her to scramble up to her feet before gripping her wrist with one hand and a handful of hair with the other to force her to her knees.

“I told you to kneel.”

Her free hand wraps around the arm that has a fistful of her hair as I crouch down while bringing her to her knees. Once she’s down, I grin.

“You’d better learn to do as I say,” I tell her calmly.

“Asshole!” She shoots out her arm and snatches away my mask, clawing flesh as she does it. Only when that’s done does she stop. Does she draw back, that mask in her hand, her breathing ragged, as ragged as mine.

“Finished?” I ask, jerking her head back.

She cries out, drops the mask. I kick away the knife and as soon as I release her, she falls forward onto her hands, panting.

I give her a minute to catch her breath while I walk the few steps to where the knife is. But it’s not a knife at all. It’s a thick shard of glass with blood on its edges. Mine. Hers too, when I glance at her to find her holding the wrist of the hand which is pouring blood onto the white carpet.

“Where did you learn this trick? Prison?”

“I’ve never been to prison, asshole.”

“I’m done hearing myself referred to as asshole.”

“You prefer ass wipe?”

I toss the glass far enough away she won’t get to it and walk back to her. There, I crouch down again and am glad to see her cringe back. At least until she catches herself doing it.

“What was that?” I ask, my face inches from hers. “Didn’t quite catch it.”

She glares, but keeps her mouth shut. Good girl.

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