Page 147 of Born for Lace

“Look!” he demands again, grabbing the back of my head and forcing my face straight ahead. “Look at your throat, little flower. Look what I did.”

Tears build behind my eyes, but I refuse to blink in case they cascade down my cheeks and reveal my sorrow. I know what it looks like. I can feel it. The skin on my neck is purple and red, marred by long red bands—clear imprints from fingers.

“It wasn’t you,” I whisper, voice tight around my nervousness. “It was?—”

“Six.” The dark word slithers down my spine, conjuring memories of that night. The heat of his breath pressing down on me, my fear and arousal dancing together as I willingly surrendered to him. To be close to him. To comfort him.

I love him so much.

It hurts.

I swallow. “Who is Six?”

“Me,” he replies straight away, his matter-of-fact tone is emotionless. “My Shadow number. Zero Zero Six.”

A shuddering breath escapes me as I say, “Do you want me to call you Six?”

“If that means you will keep the taser on you, you can call me anything you like.”

I try to back away. “I’ve seen enough.”

“No.” He holds me in place. “You haven’t. One hand. That is all it will take. Creep up on me again while I’m half-asleep, and you might just feel that. I need to know you’re prepared.”

“If I need to defend myself, I will,” I promise weakly. Not even convincing myself because that night I wrapped my arms around him and let him.

“Prove it,” he challenges. “Go get it.”

The baby in my belly rolls, my stomach churns with nausea, and I swallow over lumps of discomfort. “Okay.”

As I walk into the bunker, he waits just outside the open door, not stepping inside, but his sparks of domineering energy trail me down the steps and over to a tall chest of drawers where mybeibaosags on its side on top.

I retrieve the gun from between the sleeves and return to the open door, stopping in front of him.

“Here”—I twist my wrist, flashing the gun in my fist— “I have it.”

“Shoot me with it.”

My mouth drops open. “No.”

“Do it, little flower. Practice.”

I shake my head over and over. “No, no, I don’t want to.”

“Did you fuck Robert?”

I gasp. “No?—”

“Tomar?” He barely lets me finish the word, provoking me, his tone a snarl, a snap of anger. “Did you fuck him? When I came to your room, and you were on the mattress, were you going to fuck him while I was sedated?”

The storm inside me cracks. “No!”

“Did you spread your legs for another man while I was being tortured with your scent? While I was thinking about you, only you, were you fucking other men?”

I sob, shoulders shaking. “No!”

“Shoot the fucking taser!”

My vision blurs behind hot, heavy tears. But I lift the gun and pull the trigger before I can think, or guess, or wonder, the pulse going off in my hand.

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