Page 36 of Cruel Cravings

The rage wells up inside me like a storm that’s unstoppable. I rush out of the room, my hands shaking as I throw open a large cabinet and drag out the case I found last night. It weighs at least fifty pounds, but I drag it back into the main room, settingit down on the floor in front of him. It bangs against the wooden floorboards, the sound loud and aggressive.

“You see this?” I ask, kneeling to unlatch it. The lid springs open, revealing the collection inside—Mr. Klum’s hunting knives neatly placed alongside a set of rifles and other tools. I pluck one of the knives out, letting the blade catch the light. “Beautiful,” I whisper, almost transfixed. Then I turn my gaze back onto him, distantly aware how crazed I must look. “Do you know how far I’m willing to go for answers?”

For the first time, I’m able to stir something out of him. His head tilts slightly to the left, his gaze focusing on the sharp blade I’m holding in front of him. He eyes the weapon like he truly believes it’s as beautiful as I’ve stated it is, and when he speaks, his voice is rough like gravel.

“Do what you have to do.”

The words cut through me like the blade I’m holding.

I’m struck speechless, staring at him in a frustration that’s left me frozen. That bubbles under the surface ’til it finally explodes and I jump to my feet. I slam the knife down on the table, piercing straight through the wood. Back to pacing, a laugh that’s wild and breathless tumbles out of me.

“You think this is a joke? You think I’m fucking kidding?!”

I sweep my arm across the table, sending papers, mugs, and pens flying. A lamp crashes to the floor, shattering into pieces. I rush toward the wall and rip away some of the clippings, a scream caught in my throat.

“You don’t get to do this to me!” I shriek.

I spiral.

Some part of me, some far away hidden part of me, knows that I’ve checked out. I’m so crazed in this moment, I need someone to stop me. I need someone to step in before I hurt myself.

Too late.

I grab another mug from the table and smash it against the wall. A shard slices across the palm of my hand and I stumble back at the sharp pain. Blood spills at once, leaking across my palm like a stream.

I watch in morbid fascination as my chest heaves with sobs that I can’t hold back anymore.

The blood drips one droplet at a time, deep red that splashes onto the wooden boards below.

I sink to my knees and fight to breathe. Catch my breath.

The panic I’ve kept away floods me and the room starts to spin. My body feels so heavy, my brain so fuzzy.

I can’t think.

A voice whispers inside my head, soft and familiar, not entirely unlike my own.

Sleep. Go to sleep…

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I… I can’t…”

But it’s a losing battle. The wooziness overtakes me and I drop the rest of the way to the floor.

The last thing I see before my eyes slip closed is the masked man chained to the chair.

Still watching like always.

It feels like a lifetime goes by before I’m jolting awake. My temple throbs and my mouth feels dry like sandpaper. For a second, I’m not sure where I am. I’m lying on the floor, the ceiling above me made up of wooden beams.

Then it hits me.

I gasp, bolting upright. My breath catches as the memories flood in—the cabin, the shadow man, the knife, the episode I’dhad, and the way I’d slit my palm open. My gaze darts to where he was chained, panic seizing me up.

I expect to find the chair empty. The chains sprawled out across the floor, signaling his escape.

But I’m wrong.

I scramble to my feet so fast the blood rushes to my head and makes me dizzy all over again.

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