Page 15 of The Villain
“Stop calling me a moth.” I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.
“I’ll call you whatever I like.” He leans his face close and, keeping eye contact, inhales deeply and makes a satisfied sound. “Do you know what you smell of,Moth?” I don’t answer, but again, he’s not waiting for me to. “You smell of fear.”
He straightens, a smirk on his face, a challenge. I glare up at him. I have no comeback. He has a keen sense of smell. I am scared. I’m fucking terrified. I have reason to be.
“Any more tricks up your sleeve?” he asks, wholly satisfied with himself.
Prick.
I narrow my gaze and grin. “Just this one,” I say, because I know if you don’t fight, they don’t go any easier on you. The opposite. So, I slide my hand into the pocket of my pants and wrap it around the bejeweled letter opener I’d found in the desk in the room. It’s quite pretty, actually. I draw it out and before he can register what I’m doing and before I can change my mind, I stab it into his side.
For a moment, we both freeze. Me with my hand wrapped around the hilt of the letter opener, him, with a look of surprise and then pain on his face.
He grunts or growls or something. His eyes narrow even more. He presses his right hand to my shoulder and pushes me against the door as we both look at where the would-be dagger is sticking out of his side, lodged low, between his ribs.
Warm blood trickles onto my hand and I pull it away, almost trying to hide it behind my back.
“That was,” he starts closing his hand over the hilt. He’s in pain. I hear it in his voice. “A mistake,” he finishes.
Blood seeps around his fingers, but he doesn’t pull the blade out. I think if he pulled it out, it’d be worse.
I stare up at him. Shit. Did I hit an important organ?
He draws a tight breath in, and I know each second of it hurts. He loosens his hand on my shoulder and the instant he does, I run. I sprint fast toward that open door and almost reach it. So close. I scream when he grabs me by the arm and spins me around, but he’s hurt and in pain and I slam my fist into the back of the hand that’s still closed over the wound. When I do, he lets out a grunt and falls back a step.
It’s enough. I turn and again, I run. I get through the door into what I thought was his bedroom, but stop because there, in the middle is a large stone structure, a baptismal font, carved and beautiful and what the fuck is it doing in the middle of a bedroom?
“You’d better run faster than that, Moth,” he bellows behind me, and I turn to look, to watch him coming.
I take hold of the door to slam it shut, then scream when it stops abruptly as he catches it. I jump backward, meet his eyes which are raging. My back hits the font and I turn once more, look for the door in this dark, strange room. It’s at the far end and I take off for it, but there are too many obstacles blocking my path, slowing me down.
“I said faster!” he orders.
I make the mistake of looking back. He’s faster than Iexpect him to be considering his injury. He’s not even really running, more stalking with one hand over his wound to keep the letter opener in place. When I take my next step, my foot catches the upturned corner of the rug, and I yelp as I go down.
He catches me. I make claws of my hands and scream as I scratch at his chest and in our struggle, I take him down with me. He grabs a wrist. I shove against him, try to wriggle out from under him. My hand is slippery with his blood. Something rips as I try to get away. I’m panting, we both are. There’s blood everywhere, and I’m exhausted, but he’s not. Not yet. Even wounded he has more stamina than me. He’s a fighter. A killer. He’s the fucking Grim Reaper.
“Enough!” he roars.
His weight is on me now, the carpet barely providing any cushion from the hard stone.
My lungs struggle to expand against his weight. “Get away from me. I can’t breathe!” I cry out, slapping at his chest, his face. It’s all I can do. He’s got me pinned.
He lifts his weight off my chest and, even injured, manages to collect my wrists in one hand, the other back on his side, his shirt drenched in blood now. He gets to his knees, takes a labored breath in, then stands, very clearly in pain.
“I already told you. You won’t fly away from me,” he says and hauls me to my feet. He drags me toward the bed, and from the nightstand retrieves a pair of leather cuffs.
“What are you doing?” I demand, struggling to get free.
He sits on the edge of the bed, takes a moment, muttering a curse against the pain. He tugs me close. “Enzo!” he calls out.
“What?” I ask.
He looks at me, eyes narrowed and cuffs my right wrist. I tug my left arm away when he tries to cuff it. I don’t get free, though.
He stops as soon as he has hold of it. I knew he would, didn’t I? I don’t look at him. I keep my gaze on the floor. I don’t want to see his face because I know what he’s looking at and can imagine what he’s thinking.
He brushes the tip of his finger over the nub of my pinkie. I yank to get it free, but he holds tight. When I shift my gaze to his, I find those eyes locked on me, eyebrows furrowed, waiting.
