Page 67 of His Black Onyx

Chapter 33

Nate

"Then why are you still here?"

My question lingers, visibly making her uncomfortable. She looks defeated. Her shoulders slacken and her expression turns pensive, hurt apparent in her eyes. It's as if she's silently repeating that question to herself.

Why did I stay? Why did I not try to run when I realized nothing would have happened to anybody I love?

Yes, why didn't you, Malia?

"What chance did I have?" she replies, jutting her chin forward defiantly. "It's not like I haven't considered it, trust me. I was always on the lookout for even a tiny chance to run. But what would have happened? It's like you said, out there in the woods, there was nowhere for me to go, no one would have heard me scream. If I had run and yelled for help, you guys would've been the first to find me and... do God knows what with me."

She pauses, taking a deep breath to calm herself. She's been spitting out the words like a machine gun firing, her heated outburst painting a deep red blush on her cheeks. Her petite chest heaves heavily.

"I'm not stupid, Nate," she insists. Her lips quiver as she tries everything within her power not to break out in tears. "I'm not a puppet on a string, or a naive little lamb that follows orders like you people do-"

"Like you people?" I interrupt, raising my voice to abruptly silence the fire in hers. "Did you just call me dumb?"

Malia looks at me, her lips pressed into a thin line. Suppressed fury dances in her black eyes.

"I don't know," she says. "No... not you. But-"

"Then be careful," I warn. "I know you have every reason to be angry at me and at this whole situation, but don't think that insulting me is a good way to deal with it."

Her lips move as if she's gnawing on the words before saying them, a deep furrow appearing between her eyebrows.

"I'm sorry."

My first instinct is to yell at her, because her apology doesn't seem sincere. It takes me a moment to realize that, in fact, it is. She does regret her words, and neither the strained look on her face or the hesitation as she spoke is a sign of her being dishonest. The discomfort has a different source, rooted in something I can't quite place.

Attachment? Affection?

I remember her response to our little bondage intermezzo a couple of nights ago, the heated lust that was breathing between us, the desire screaming in her raven black eyes after I brought her into a state that left no room for rational decisions.

And the disappointment, shame, and anger when I humiliated her by not following through, by not giving her the release she craved. She practically begged me to touch her, to fuck her, and I didn't do it just to put her in her place.

But it left an impact on her, and maybe that's what I've been seeing all along. It's not hope of getting out of here, helped by a nebulous source outside that made her stand up taller before the danger that awaits.

No.

It was the bond that existed between us when I decided to teach her that night.

And if I'm right about my assumption, there's only one thing I can do to improve the chances of this mission succeeding—providing her with the strength she needs to go through with this. Because I know what she needs—confidence in herself and devotion to the cause, which means devotion to me.

"I don't know if I can forgive that easily," I say, my eyes lowered and my voice deep and laced with an ominous undertone. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her turn to me, alarmed.

"You just say you're sorry, and that's it?" I add, now meeting her eyes. Hers are wide and her shoulders are tense, slowing rising up to her ears as she tries to figure out what's happening.

"You really think it's that simple with me?" I continue, reveling in the sight of her shoulders rising even further and the expression on her face turning fearful.

"I didn't mean it like that," she insists. "But I'll say it again: I'm really sorry. What more can I do?"

I scoff, throwing her a mischievous look.

"Oh, I have something in mind."

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