Page 12 of Slay Bells Ring

I try to get up, but all I can do is sit up because my wrists are fastened to the two corners of the headboard with rope. “Motherfucker,” I whisper when I realize that asshole knocked me out and tied me up usingmygoddamned rope. I’m pretty much in the same position Kane was in—minus the straddling part.

“You have quite the mouth on you, don’t you, kid?” Kane’s deep voice fills the air, and I whip my head to the other side of the room, finding him standing there in the doorway, holding onto my knife.

It takes everything in me to not gulp when I see him. Maybe it’s my position on the bed, but he doesn’t look like a drunk anymore. Standing there, his height is on fulldisplay, along with his wide frame. Beneath his long-sleeved shirt, I can practically see his biceps bulging.

Oh, and he shaved.

It’s not the closest shave, and I can’t help but assume he used my knife to do it. He still has some dark stubble on his square jaw, but the unkempt beard with flecks of gray is gone—along with fifteen years.

Without the ugly beard, he doesn’t look like a middle-aged man whose only purpose in life is to drown his sorrows in the bottle. No, he’s still very much in his prime, and even though he’s ancient compared to me, I hate that I admit to myself he’s not too bad to look at.

“I told you,” I say once I get over the change of appearance, “I’m not a fucking kid.”

“Right.” Kane walks into the room with a swagger he most definitely didn’t have before. It’s like night and day. He went from drunk old man to badass assassin just like that. He stops when he stands at the foot of the bed, his blue eyes cold as he mutters, “Holly fucking Cooper.”

I can’t decide whether I want to stare at his face or at the knife he’s toying with as he stands there, so I split my time looking at both.

“Did you really think you could waltz in here and take out a seasoned hitman like me?” As he asks the question, he tilts his head and narrows his stare, like he truly thinks I’m the dumbest person alive for even trying something like that.

“I’m not as helpless as you think I am. I’ve trained—”

“For thirteen years, I bet—but that’s the difference between you and me. You’ve had thirteen years, but I’ve had my whole goddamned life to learn everything there isto know about the human body and every weapon you can imagine.”

I roll my eyes. Can’t help it. Smells like a whole lot of bullshit in here.

Kane must not like my attitude, because he wanders around the bed, stopping when he stands beside me. “Thirteen years is nothing,” he whispers. “A drop in the bucket. Only an idiot full of pride would think he—or she—knows everything there is to know after thirteen years. Even now, I’m still learning.” He sits on the bed near me and lifts my knife, drawing my attention to it.

Swallowing hard, I ask, “So, what? Are you going to kill me? Torture me and then kill me? Have your fun with me and then torture and kill me?”

The chuckle that rises from his chest is low enough to give me goosebumps, and the off-the-shoulder glance he gives me only adds to the way my breath catches in the back of my throat.

“I’d ask you what kind of man you think I am, but I already know.” He runs a finger along the dull side of the knife, drawing it along the steel slowly. “And, for the record, while I may be a killer and an occasional torturer, I’m not a rapist. Let’s make that clear.”

“Oh, well don’t you deserve a pat on the back for that,” I huff with a frown.

He laughs again, and since he’s sitting on the bed, I can feel the old, spring-filled mattress shake when he does. “You are something else, Holly fucking Cooper. What am I going to do with you?”

“You could let me go and let me finish the job I came here for?” I suggest.

The way Kane stares at me after that tells me he’s thinking. I don’t know if he’s actually weighing my suggestion or not. Doesn’t matter. It’s not like I really think he’ll let me go, hand me my knife, and let me stab him in the chest.

A minute passes before he says, “Tell you what. I’ll let you go, but I’m not going to let you kill me. If you want your pound of flesh, you’ll have to work for it.”

His words are slow to sink in, and by the time I realize what he said, he’s already leaning over me and using my knife to cut me free. One wrist at a time. I really do hate being this close to him, but in a situation like this, what can you do?

Once I’m free, he gets up and moves away from the bed, watching as I rub my wrists and glare at him. “I’ll even give this back to you for now. I’m curious if you really know how to use it, or if you’re just full of yourself.”He tosses the dagger at me.

The knife lands on the bed between my spread ankles, but I don’t go for it right away. A part of me wonders if this is a trap of some kind. I’ve lost the element of surprise though, so at this point, I need to keep throwing spaghetti on the wall to see what sticks.

“Well?” Kane asks as he cocks his head and arches a brow. “Are you going to grab the knife and come at me, or are you just going to sit there and stare at me?” And then, the asshole, he smirks and says, “Show me what you got, kid.”

At this point, he knows I hate being called that. I haven’t been a kid for a long, long time—something he knows. Something he’s the cause of. I had to grow up fast because of him.

I grab the knife and get to my feet.

I hate the way he watches me, like an animal, a predator who knows he stands tall at the top of the food chain. Totally unbothered by me or my knife. Confident and smug, like he can see the future and he knows this can only end one way.

And if it ends in my death? So be it. Whatever. At least I tried to give this asshole what he deserves.

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