Page 121 of A Witchy Spell Ride
And now she was something he couldn’t ever touch again.
“On your knees,” I said.
He blinked, confused. Men like him don’t know what to do with orders that don’t sound like worship. I dragged the blade just enough to make the point. He sank, slow, hands lifting like surrender might buy him dignity. It didn’t. I kicked the knife on his altar out of reach, and it clanged under the workbench.
“Hands behind your head,” I said. “Interlace your fingers.”
He obeyed, breath hitching.
“Now,” I added, sweet as venom, “say my name the way you said it outside my window.”
He swallowed. “Se—Selene.”
“Wrong,” I said softly. “You said it like a prayer. Try again.”
His eyes went shiny. “Selene,” he breathed, reverent and sick.
“Better. Remember that tone,” I said. “You’re going to need it later.”
I didn’t take the blade off his throat. With my free hand, I felt blindly behind me for the chair. It wasn’t bolted, good and the nylon tie at my ankles had loosened when I doused it earlier. I stepped back half a pace, used my knee to trap his shoulder in place against the pillar, and reached down, sawing the wet nylon until it sighed apart. My feet were free. My balance doubled.
Briggs licked his lips. “We can talk about this.”
“We are,” I said. “You talk. I listen. Then I decide.”
His chin wobbled against the blade. “You don’t want to be that person.”
I smiled, showing teeth. “You don’t get to define ‘that person’ for me.”
He tried a different angle, petty and familiar. “Ghost won’t like it.”
“Ghost will love me exactly like this,” I said, and the truth of it landed in my chest like a battle flag. “On your belly.”
“Selene—”
“Don’t make me say it twice.”
He hesitated. I pressed a fraction deeper. He eased down, cheek to concrete, hands behind his head like a suspect in a movie he thought he wasn’t acting in.
I slit the hem of my skirt to mid-thigh. The velvet sighed. I needed range more than aesthetics. I moved like I belonged in my own skin again.
I found the zip ties he’d used earlier on the table, grabbed two with one hand, and knelt without giving up blade position. “If you twitch,” I said conversationally, “I’ll make you sing soprano.”
He went still. I looped one tie around his wrists and yanked it tight until plastic bit. With the other, I cinched his ankles. He flinched at the second bite; I didn’t apologize.
When he was secured, I stepped back a pace, blade still ready, and took a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been stealing. Heat shook through me, delayed adrenaline, ugly and holy. I let it burn.
“Look at me,” I said.
He rolled his head so one eye could catch me. I let him see me: dress torn, thigh bare, blade steady, hair wild like smoke. Not broken. Not prey. Mine.
“Repeat after me,” I said. “I don’t love you.”
His mouth opened, closed. Obedience has grooves; he fell into them. “I… don’t love you.”
“I love the person I invented,” I said.
“I… love the person I invented.”
