Page 41 of We Are the Match
His voice is weighted with meaning, with something I cannot quite suss out.Upsetseems to say more than either Zarek or Tommy is willing to articulate.
Thea hinted at it, too: that there is more danger to Helen than meets the eye, that there is a reason she remains locked away, rarely making appearances even at small gatherings of the Families. What unstable, violent tendencies mar that perfect facade? And why does this hint only heighten my desire to make Helenmine?
“Very well,” Zarek says. “But I want Helen informed after.” His gaze snaps back to me. “And you.”
“I am doing the job you hired me for,” I tell him firmly. Whether I answer to him first or his daughter should not be relevant.
I will not fear. I will not waver. I will not break, or fall, or die, not today, not after everything I clawed my way through to survive.
Because what else is there to take from me?
Zarek reaches forward and snatches my hand, pulling me forward, just off-balance enough to matter. He meets my eyes as he twists my fingers in his viselike grip. “This is what happens,” he says. “To people who forget theirplace.” In a flash, there is a blade in his free hand.
Behind me, I hear no noise from Tommy, no surprise.
“You do not speak to me as if you own me,” he says. He leans forward, his face so close to mine I can smell high-end cologne and cigar smoke.
I am not afraid.
The thought beats in my chest.
“If you do not have a name for me within a week, you lose something that matters to you,” Zarek says. His voice is still soft, but rage flickers all the same, barely controlled. “If you attempt to givemean order ever again, if you speak to me again the way you have today, you lose a hand. Are we clear?”
Fury thunders against my rib cage.
You will not make me afraid.
“Very,” I breathe, and then he cuts my pinkie finger off at the knuckle.
A sound rips from my throat, half growl, half guttural scream.
There is a knife in my boot, and it takes everything I have, every ounce of bleeding strength, not to draw it and put it through his fucking throat.
There is a longer game to play, I know there is, but I can hardly see it through the haze of blood.
I stare down at the bloody stub remaining at the end of my left hand. At the knife in Zarek’s hand, covered in my blood.
My finger is on the table between us.
Zarek smiles.
And then the pain arrives, wave upon wave, and my stomach heaves violently.
Blood is running down my arm, but there is something there, amid pain, amid adrenaline, amid fear.
Fury.
Raw and animal and overtaking every part of me.
“Will you question me again?” he asks softly.
Yes,I want to say to the knife, to the man, to the silent, watching guards.Always, over and over again. I will always question those who think they rule.
“No,” I say through gritted teeth.
And beneath it all I make myself a silent promise:I will not always be the one powerless in this room. One day, I will be the one to take your whole fucking hand.
I eye the fingers on his left hand, covered in my blood.Mine.His fingers are well manicured. He wears his wedding ring and a ring with the Family symbol on it, covered in my blood.
