Page 42 of Her Name in Red
My gaze drifts to the coffee table where my switchblade rests beside a stack of psychology textbooks. I always keep it within reach—not hidden, because why bother? Every girl should have a weapon handy at any given moment. It's always warranted in a world full of men who think they own you.
The knife is nothing special, except Uncle Matteo gave it to me when I was thirteen before he disappeared for a while. Three-inch blade, black handle worn smooth from years of my grip. But there's something beautiful about it. I reach for it without thinking, my fingers closing around the familiar weight.
The blade snaps open with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud in the apartment.
I hold it up, turning it this way and that, watching how the light plays across the surface.
Beneath me, Riggs sleeps on, oblivious to the predator straddling his lap.
I press the flat of the blade against my palm, feeling its coolness against my skin. Then, slowly, I lower it until the tip hovers above the exposed column of his throat. His pulse beats there, strong and steady, each throb pushing his skin minutely closer to my blade.
One quick slice. That's all it would take. His eyes would fly open, confusion giving way to understanding. He'd try to speak, but there'd only be the wet gurgle of blood. I'd watch the light fade from those hazel eyes, watch as they dulled from bright to glassy. Blood would bloom across his hockey team shirt, turning the gray fabric black in the dim light.
I press the tip against his skin, just enough to create a tiny dimple without breaking through.
“What would you do?” I whisper, “if you woke up right now?”
As if in answer, Riggs shifts beneath me, his head tilting slightly to the side. The movement exposes more of his neck to my blade. Trusting, even in sleep. Fucking idiot.
My weight shifts as his body tenses beneath me, consciousness seeping back into him one cell at a time. His hands find my waist in the dark, fingers digging into my hips like he's done this a thousand times before, in a thousand different dreams.
“Maren,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and something darker. My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer and a curse wrapped into one. His hips roll up, a slow, deliberate grind that sends heat spiraling through my core.
My breath catches. The blade trembles against his skin.
His arousal is obvious now, hardening beneath me, pressing against the thin fabric between us. I should move. Should lift the knife away. Should do anything but what I'm doing, which is pressing my weight down to meet his upward thrust, chasing that friction like I'm the one who's been asleep all this time and just now waking up.
“Fuck,” he groans, fingers tightening on my hips. His thumbs find the strip of exposed skin where my t-shirt has ridden up, drawing small circles that burn like brands. “Maren.”
His eyes are still closed, but I can tell he's no longer sleeping. His breathing has changed, becoming more ragged. He's awake enough to know what's happening, awake enough to want it. The realization sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with the knife in my hand and everything to do with the heat pooling between my legs.
I shift my weight, grinding down against him, and his fingers flex against my skin. “Jesus,” he hisses, the muscles in his throat working beneath the blade's tip.
“Who the fuck is Kayla?” I whisper; the words slip out before I can stop them. “And why are you here when she's waiting for you?”
His body goes rigid beneath me. His eyes snap open, pupils blown wide with arousal and confusion in equal measure. For asplit second, he doesn't register the knife—his focus is entirely on my face, on the words I've just said. Then his gaze drops to the blade pressed against his throat, and understanding dawns like a cold sunrise.
“Maren,” he says carefully, his voice steady despite the knife at his pulse point. “What are you doing?”
“Don't move,” I murmur, applying just enough pressure to make my point without breaking skin. “Not unless you want me to slip.”
I press the blade a fraction harder against his skin, not enough to break it, but enough to remind him it's there. “Now, answer the question, Rhodes.”
His Adam's apple bobs beneath the knife's edge as he swallows. “How do you know about Kayla?”
“Your phone lit up,” I say, my voice dripping with fake sweetness. “She seems very eager to help you 'relax' after your game. Said she'd be waiting in your bed.” I tilt my head, studying his face with clinical detachment. “So I'll ask again. Why are you here?”
Riggs doesn't even flinch. The knife is right there, right against his throat, and he doesn't try to push me off, doesn't reach for my wrist to move the blade away. The fucker actually leans in, pressing his throat harder against the tip until I see it—a perfect ruby droplet welling up where metal meets skin.
“Kayla Thompson,” he says, his voice steady and low, “is what my mom calls 'family friends,' which means her mom and mine got drunk together at their sorority over twenty years ago, and now we all have to pretend we give a shit about each other.”
I don't move the knife. Or ease up on the pressure. The blood drop grows fatter, threatening to slide down the column of his throat. My eyes follow its journey, mesmerized.
“She's a homie hopper,” he continues, and I can feel the vibration of his voice against the blade. “Goes through the teamroster like it's her personal fuck catalog. Martinez. Johnson. Wilson. She tried with me after I joined, but I never touched her. Never fucking wanted to.”
“So why is she texting you about waiting in your bed?” The words come out harsher than I intended, revealing too much. The jealousy in my voice is like acid, burning through my indifference.
His eyes lock with mine, pupils so wide I can barely see the hazel ring around them. “Because she doesn't understand what 'not interested' means. Because she's used to getting what she wants.” His hands slide up from my hips to grip my waist, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to bruise. “Unlike you.”
