Page 42 of Captive Souls

Then I let out my own swift intake of breath.

He was still standing, watching me. He was holding a knife. He’d obviously been in the middle of cutting something for dinner. But Knox, all in black, clutching the knife while staring at me like he’d stepped out of a nightmare stole the air from my lungs.

Except the expression on his face... It was not just deadly. It was the picture of masculine need unlike anything I’d ever glimpsed in my life. I’d stood naked in front of men, lovers. Had felt their appreciation for my form, sure.

But nothing like the way Knox was looking at me.

It wasn’t like he wanted to worship me.

It was like he wanted toruinme.

My breathing quickened as I clutched at my clothes, instantly regretting my decision, chastising my previous boldness.

The moment lasted longer than it should’ve. Much longer. It was charged with an uncertain energy. What would happen next? The silence in the room seemed to boom with tension. I could hear his breathing. Fractured. Unsteady. Nothing that denoted his trademark control.

Knox was still holding the knife. He was a killer, he wasn’t quite hinged, that was clear. And I was pushing him. Pushing him toward an edge I didn’t even understand. I thought he simply desired me, and the ‘worst’ possible outcome of my teasing him was him acting on that desire.

Even though that’s what that secret part of me craved all along.

I’d never considered just how fucked-up Knox might’ve been. That I could be coaxing a wild animal out of its cage, not knowing whether it was going to fuck me or kill me.

Knox didn’t seem like he knew whether he was going to fuck me or kill me either.

For a long moment, my life hung in the balance. I swore I felt it. The whisper of death that could come at the hands of a man I both despised and craved. And insanely, I wanted to risk it. I wanted to drop the towel and invite him closer.

I was seconds away from doing it, caught up in the madness of the moment, a wild animal of my own unleashed and eager to play.

Milliseconds before I did it, Knox moved.

Not toward me like I’d expected.

No, back to the kitchen. He walked slowly, his steps measured and rigid, as if he were made of stone or metal. His gestures were almost robotic as he chopped whatever he was using the knife for. But I knew the clang of the knife against the cutting board was harder than it needed to be, as if he were letting out just a whisper of the violence he possessed.

The violence I was courting. Willingly.

Anxiety bubbling inside of me, I rushed to the bathroom to dress, flattening myself against the door the moment I closed it.

My heart was galloping against my heaving chest, my breathing as rapid as if I’d run a marathon.

My nipples were peaked, my core throbbing with need even though I’d realized what a mistake that was. My mind understood the stakes, my body did not. Or maybe it did, and that’s what made it respond in such a way. A way that felt panic-inducing, like I couldn’t trust what I might do moment to moment. Like another version of me was taking control over my body and I was powerless to stop her.

That version urged me to find relief between my legs. To do it loudly, loudly enough for Knox to hear.

My fingers itched to do that.

But I fisted my hand.

“No,” I whispered out loud to myself. It couldn’t have been healthy, talking to another version of myself. But it wasn’t healthy trying to seduce a psychopath either, so I was obviously fucked either way.

No pun intended.

With great difficulty, I dressed. And as I was doing it, I folded up that interaction. I did it tightly and with precision I’d learned from years of therapy. I put it far in the back of my mind then closed the door.

It was the only way I could walk back into the room with him without shrinking in embarrassment. And unfortunately, I couldn’t very well stay in this bathroom all night.

I had to go back out there as if I wasn’t profoundly affected by our moment. As if I didn’t feel changed forever.

I hadn’t wanted to talk to him during dinner, but giving the silent treatment had never really been my thing. Whenever I’d fought with men in the past, I had always promised myself a period of stonewalling—before I learned in therapy how toxic such a thing was—yet always, always lasted less than an hour, unable to hold on to a grudge, desperate to repair the chasm between us and desperate to be wanted. Desperate to be in a healthy relationship, feel safe and secure. Not that I’d ever really had a relationship. I always ran before things got too serious.

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