Page 12 of Last Hand

I don’t move.

The air thickens, stifling. It smells of mildew, old sweat, and something coppery that could easily be blood.

“I was expecting more from you,” he says. “Tears. Pleas. The usual mess.”

He doesn’t smile, not really. It’s more a twitch of the mouth, like he finds something amusing but doesn’t want to waste energy enjoying it.

He circles me, the way men in power do—like I’m already his and this is just the formality of watching me squirm.

“No begging,” he muses. “No screaming. Not yet.”

He pauses behind me for a moment too long. The weight of his stare presses into the back of my skull.

“Funny how the quiet ones always make the best noise, once the fear sets in.”

The words slide into my ears like broken glass. I hold still.

My jaw clenches as I answer, voice dry and tight. “I’m not going to give you what you want.”

His footstep lands in front of me again. He studies me like I’ve just offered him a dare.

“I haven’t even told you what I want,” he replies. “But that’s the thing with girls like you. You assume. You prepare for all the wrong outcomes.”

“I’m not stupid,” I snap, before I can think better of it. “I know whatever it is, it won’t end well for me.”

He lets that sit in the air between us.

Then he leans in, not close enough to touch, but enough that I feel the heat of his breath. “You’re half right. This isn’t about your intelligence, Fallon. It’s about control. You’ve lost yours. I’ve got mine.”

He steps away, finally giving me space. Yet the room doesn’t feel any less suffocating.

“I’m not here to bargain,” he adds. “This isn’t a deal. It’s not even a conversation.”

I take a breath. “Leone already took everything from me. There’s nothing left to take.”

“You sure about that?”

He’s not smiling now. His tone shifts—cold and surgical.

“I could take your life,” he says flatly.

I laugh, though it comes out dry and hoarse. “If you were going to kill me, I’d be dead already. You need me.”

“Need is such a fragile word,” he murmurs. “So is alive. You’re useful. For now. That’s all.”

He closes the distance again. No rush. No warning.

“And that,” he says, eyes narrowing, “is where you make your mistake. You think being useful is the same as being untouchable. That’s not how this world works.”

I don’t respond.

“I’ve broken people who were more valuable than you,” he says, now close enough that his voice rakes across my skin. “Men who begged for their lives. Women who offered anything to make it stop. You think you’re different because you grit your teeth and pretend you’re unafraid?”

I say nothing, meanwhile my pulse thunders.

He studies my silence, then whispers, “You’ll learn. Everyone does.”

He pulls something from his coat—small, fast, deliberate. A switchblade clicks open, metal catching the dim light.