Page 38 of Black Heart

He spins us, half dragging me across the road. The cocktails in my system turn my limbs to lead, hampering my resistance.

I whimper, my heart squeezing my lungs. The scent of saltwater and decay fills my nostrils as the wind picks up, carrying with it the eerie whistle of distant ships. The moonlight casts grotesque shadows on the old, crumbling buildings around us.

“You belong to me, Layla,” he murmurs, his voice deep and throaty. “Remember that.”

“Ethan,” I shout, craning my neck to keep his prone form in my view. “Ethan, wake up!”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and my heart leaps as his eyelids flutter open. Ethan sits up and shakes his head groggily.

Emboldened, I turn on the Scythe. “You are the only danger in my life. Everything else is normal except what you’ve sabotaged. Dawson hasn’t breathed a word about what I overheard. And Ethan? He’s just a nice guy, not part of your twisted kink.”

The mention of all those names makes his grip tighten.

“You speak of other men in my presence,” he warns, adangerous edge to his voice, “when even one is too many, Layla. Their existence in your life is at my discretion.”

With an unyielding grip, the Scythe steers me toward a sleek black car hidden in an alleyway. The vehicle is modern and nondescript, almost swallowed by the narrow pool of black between the buildings. I try to pull away, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm, but his strength is overwhelming.

“Get in the car,” he orders.

“I’ll call a cab. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He leans in close. “Get in the car if you want Ethan to live.”

His words hit me like a physical blow. My eyes dart back to Ethan, still on the ground, rubbing his neck and looking around in confusion, searching for me.

Ethan’s hurt because I let my guard down. I wanted normalcy when it is so clear my life is far from ordinary.

With leaden steps and a heavier heart, I climb into the car. The Scythe closes the door with an ominous thud.

As we vanish into the night, leaving a dazed Ethan behind, a terrible realization washes over me.

The Scythe’s dominance was never just about stalking.

It’s about possession.

A claim so all-consuming, so terrifyingly complete, that it threatens to devour not just my freedom but also my very identity.

13

LAYLA

The zip ties dig into my wrists as I squirm against the tight knots, searching for any weakness in their embrace.

The Scythe watches my struggle, his tone a mix of impatience and amusement. “You won’t break free.”

After a tense, silent drive, we arrived at an old warehouse on the outskirts of town near the rarely used, dilapidated docks. It loomed before me, appearing like a giant, evil castle out of the night. The Scythe pulled me out of the car and ushered me inside, his hand like a shackle on my arm.

In the center of the ground floor, a solitary chair stood like a throne in a neglected kingdom. He tied me to it, his movements swift and precise. I was powerless by alcohol, the vision of my friend abandoned on the street, and all the ways this man could hurt me now that he’s hidden me where no one will hear me scream.

“What is thepointof this?” I snarl, whipping my head around to face him. My hair tangles in front of my face. “If you’re so intent on ‘protecting’ me, why am I tied to a chair?”

“Because you still don’t see the gravity of your situation.Tonight proves that. You think I’m your enemy, but I’m the only one standing between you and death.”

I scoff. “My ‘knight in shining armor,’ right? More like a captor in a Batman suit. You can’t keep me here forever.”

The Scythe halts in front of me. Before I can blink, his hand snaps out, his fingers and thumbs digging into my cheeks when he forces my gaze to his. “Watch me.”

I cry out, and I’m ashamed to admit it’s not entirely from fear. “Oh yeah? And what will you do now that you have me?”

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