Page 29 of Riot's Thorn
“I don’t know. They’re just creepy.”
“That’s a common misconception. They actually make great pets. They’re easier to train than dogs, cleaner than a cat, and if you tickle them, they laugh.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. You can’t hear it because it’s too high a frequency, but they laugh and talk to each other.”
“Huh,” I say, pretending to be interested because I don’t care what he says; they’re creepy. “Have you always had rats as pets?”
In a flash, his calm, easy mood is gone. His back goes ramrod straight, and his eyes darken. The unapologetic killer is back. “When I was a boy, I made friends with the alley rats. That’s how I figured out how smart they are.”
“Like the wild rats who live in alleys?” I ask because surely I’m missing something.
“Yes.”
“Why did your parents let you play with wild rats? They carry diseases.”
“My parents didn’t care about me. They were bad people.” His indifferent tone throws me off as he stands, taking my now-empty plate, and adds, “Not as bad as your dad, though.”
“That’s mean to say,” I mutter. “You still haven’t shown me proof.”
“I don’t lie.”
“And I’m just supposed to trust you? Some murderer I don’t even know who abducted me?” I follow him into the kitchen.
He drops the plates into the sink. “Yes.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Your choice to make.”
“Let me go, and I’ll find out for myself.”
“You’d be dead within a week.” He rinses the dishes and places them in a small dishwasher.
“I’m willing to risk it.”
“I’m not.”
“Why? You don’t even know me. And unless you’re a sloppy killer, even if I told someone what happened, it would be hearsay,” I reason.
“You’re pretty enough that Bart might not kill you.”
“Thanks, I think. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Instead, he’d sell you or use you himself for his parties. You’d be raped and beaten over and over again, only given enough food and medical attention to keep you alive for as long as possible. You’d only be granted death when one of his friends got out of control and went too far.”
I wince, my breakfast churning in my belly and threatening to come back up. “You’re a cruel man to say something like that to me.”
“It’s the truth. This is better than that reality.”
“For what purpose?” I throw my hands in the air, losing all patience. “Why do you want me here?”
He looks me in the eyes, and I see the confusion, but there’s also a fondness there he has no business feeling toward me. “I don’t know.”
“So this is how the rest of my life will be? I’ll be stuck in this disgusting cabin for the rest of my life?”
He flinches at the insult, and I immediately feel guilty. People always assumed I was a spoiled rich girl because of who my grandparents were, so I had to work hard to prove themwrong. With that one comment, I feel like all that effort was flushed down the toilet. Maybe I am just a spoiled rich girl.
