Page 84 of Captive Prize

“You better be careful. Once the men stop respecting you, it’s only a matter of time before you’re tied to a chair with an asshole hitting you like a bitch.”

Mateo glared at the men, both of them standing on either side of the door, expressionless, fingers still resting on triggers.

I honestly had no idea which one laughed at him, but I didn’t need to know that to know the cracks were already showing.

This was why no one gave drug addicts power.

“If you try anything, one of those men is going to put a bullet in your fucking brain,” he said as he grabbed a large knife from the back of his pants and cut through the ropes at my wrists.

I brought my hands around my body and rubbed at the chafed skin while glaring at Mateo.

“If you shoot me in the head, then you’re really not getting my password.”

“Shut up,” he said again, and this time he held the hunting knife to my skin. The blade was rusty, dirty, and covered in God knew what.

What kind of self-respecting man didn’t take care of his tools? I didn’t care if he was a carpenter, a killer, a sniper, or a soldier. It didn’t fucking matter. It was disgusting, and just another example of how Mateo was not cut out for this world.

He didn’t have what it took to be a leader.

The fact that this little weasel was going to kill me pissed me off more than anything else. I held onto that anger.

Anger was good.

Anger helped you fight.

Fear, on the other hand, genuine fear, could paralyze you, especially if flight was not an option. Your instincts told you to play dead, to do what the crazy man said, do whatever it took to survive.

Fear might have its place by sounding an early warning or getting a person through a no-win situation.

But for me, in this situation?

Fuck fear.

Fear was my enemy.

Anger, however, was useful.

Anger got shit done.

I recognized there was a very good chance I was not going to survive, but I would make sure Mateo regretted ever laying a finger on me. I would be damned if I let this fucker take what I built.

“Log in,” he said again, pressing the knife harder into my throat. The dull blade grated against my skin, but it didn’t cut.

I reached out to the keyboard, my hands shaking as I typed in a username, MrsIvanov69, and a random password.

The page refreshed with little red letters telling me it was an invalid login.

“I’m not playing with you, bitch,” Mateo warned.

“Awe, really, but this is such a fun game.”

“Do it right,” he said. The hand that was gripping the blade shook, pressing it deeper into my neck, still not breaking skin, but the back and forth was irritating.

I reached out to the computer, and this time I typed in a different username.

GoFuckYourself123.

And another random set of letters for the password.

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