Page 40 of What Doesn't Kill Us

I swallow past the lump in my throat, steeling my spine and opening my eyes. I blink a few times, clearing my vision, and there he is, kneeling before me in all his beast-like glory.

He looks me in the eye, his golden gaze glacial, and the heaviness in my chest is suffocating as I watch him watching me.

He knows.

I don’t bother saying anything, having learned long ago that you offer no information until you know what information they’re seeking. And even then, you offer no information on the punishment of a long and torturous death.

He remains silent, then his hand snaps out without warning and wraps around my throat, squeezing viciously. His other hand comes up, his fingers delving into the hair at the nape of my neck, then tightening painfully as he holds my head in place as he slowly stands. The chair I'm chained to goes back onto two legs, and he uses his two-handed grip to hold me, suspending me in the air, and I’m torn between two very different emotions.

Fear and arousal.

He straddles my legs, his upper body leaning over me until his face is directly in front of mine, and the smile he gives me is cruel, feral even, and I’m relieved for the lack of air preventing me from whimpering in response.

He runs his nose across my cheek to my hairline, his whispered words tickling my ear. “Did you think it would work? Did you think it would be as easy as wooing me with your tits and ass, and I would become a slave to you?”

I still can’t speak, his grip on my throat preventing me from taking in any air. I focus on not struggling, adapting to the loss of oxygen, not allowing my body to overcompensate with useless adrenaline.

He licks the side of my face, then bites my cheek—hard. I flinch, his dark chuckle near my ear sending a shiver through me, and I twitch helplessly, unable to control my body’s reactions to him. “You dirty, dirty little minx. You get off on the fact you know you’re in big, big trouble, don’t you?”

I don’t bother trying to deny it by attempting to shake my head in his iron grip. He knows me too well to buy any kind of brush-off anyway, and any type of reaction would play into his hands at this point.

I have two options here: attempt to pretend what he knows is untrue or play into what he knows until a better option shows itself.

Of course, the likelihood that a better option will show itself is basically nil, but it doesn’t hurt to try.

Either way, I’m dead.

He continues his torturous assault, nipping, licking, and biting my face, my ear, and the corner of my mouth until I’m mere seconds from passing out from arousal and lack of oxygen.

Without comment, he pulls back from me, the chair abruptly crashing forward onto all four legs while his hands release their grip on me. I gasp for air, then cough violently as the influx of oxygen gets stuck in my throat.

While I’m relearning how to breathe properly, I watch him prowl around the room, dingy and dark as it is, until finally, he grabs a chair and places it directly in front of me. He sits down, leaning forward with his forearms braced on his thighs, those golden eyes glittering with malice as he says, “Fuck you for making me want you like this.”

The distraught whimper that escapes me catches me off-guard, and I attempt to cover it with a forced coughing fit, but it’s too late. He sees me. He knows.

“Why?”

I raise my brows at him but remain silent, and he leans closer to me. “Tell me why, Toni. Tell me why you would do this to me.”

I clench my jaw, staring at him intently, watching the micro expressions on his face shift behind the cold indifference prominent on his features. I feel myself crack at the tiny glimpse that flashes before me—agony, betrayal, despair.

I push it back, stuff it right down beneath the concrete edges known as the job, family, loyalty, and obedience. I try to stomp it down, but then he leans in a little closer, those golden eyes boring into mine, and he does something completely unexpected. He lets his mask fall.

Bit by bit, the fractured pieces fall away from him, and all that’s left is the tiny edge of rage encapsulating the despair.

The betrayal.

The agony.

It bleeds before me, the catalyst that breaks free the guttural and animalistic response I fear will shatter me into pieces right before his eyes.

Once again, I can’t breathe, but this time, it’s not because of his hand encircling my throat, physically taking my breath. This time, it’s my own vitriol, my own duplicitous nature attempting to choke the life out of me. Words refuse to take form; my inner turmoil a tornado inside of me, and I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the answering storm.

His fingertips touch my cheek, and I flinch away, only to have his hands grip me. His breath touches my face as he says, “You fucking look at me. You open those lying fucking eyes and look at what you’ve done.”

My eyes flutter open, unable to resist the call of his command. His gaze is unblinking; his words are quiet and tinged with pain. “Tell me why you came into my life for the sole purpose of bringing me to my knees. You need to tell me why.”

I stare into his eyes for a few moments, inhaling slowly through my nose to gain control of my overwhelming emotions. Then I answer, “No.”

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