Page 62 of Silenced

Nikolai, however, has been silent with me. Not violent.

I’m not a moron—I know what’s about to happen.

I should probably turn away, glance into the distance as Nikolai attempts to prove to me that I am in no danger from him, but I don’t.

I watch.

Cassie from a year ago might have squirmed away from it, might have cried. Cassie of today doesn’t have many tears left. The ones that remain aren’t going to be wasted on a piece of trash who wanted to use me like I was merchandise.

Eyes glued to Nikolai, not the Albanian, I see his hand retrieve the knife from the holster I know he wears, and then the blade is pressed to the man’s throat.

The torture already happened, but I’m still startled by how easy he makes it on his enemy. He pushes the tip to the juncture between throat and shoulder, pushes it deep as the Albanian cries out in pain then—the cherry on the sundae—he twists the knife.

Twice.

Okay, not so ‘easy.’

The twisted features that speak of pain on the Albanian’s face morph into a rictus of agony as he tries to get away, but that knife keeps on rotating like a chicken on a spit.

Blood spurts in a colorful arc.

The Albanian drops forward, writhing on the ground in a scarlet puddle until he’s still.

Free.

Everyone’s so afraid of death, but truly, that’s where there’s no pain at all. No fear. No worries. No regrets.

The soft, wistful sigh that whispers from me is loud in the otherwise peaceful room.

I can’t say I’m jealous. It’s not that Iwantto die. I’d just like my life to stop being a minefield, and Nikolai, whether he’s trying to prove that I’m safe with him or not, the reasons for which are still unknown, is a massive minefield.

Red flags dotted everywhere.

No Princess Diana in sight to save my butt from him, either.

I half-expect the shutters to close now that the show’s over, but they don’t. The two men who brought in Nikolai’s prop make another appearance and they drag the corpse away, leaving a bloody stain on the ground.

That’s when I realize Nikolai has disappeared, but I don’t ponder on it for long.

Instead, I study that wash of red, absently wondering if bleach will get rid of it or if they’ll need baking soda to brighten the white tiles again. Though, peroxide would probably do the job too.

When the door opens behind me, I know it’s him.

I don’t turn around.

I don’t look at him.

Much as he did twice yesterday, he ignores me, heads to that panel beside the bathroom passage, opens the safe room, and steps inside.

In the time I’ve been here, I’ve learned the lay of the land—he controls my day, my food intake, my shower schedule, and if I want something as luxurious as a towel to dry me. Even my sleep is controlled because the power will suddenly switch off out of nowhere.

Yesterday, after dinner, he allowed me to stay in the safe room where there’s a TV, but when that cut out, I knew that was his silent prompt for sleep.

With no other form of entertainment, TV and sleep are pretty much the only pastimes open to me.

I guess it makes up foryearsof living on my nerves, hmm?

With a yawn, I walk over to the safe room.

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