Page 30 of The Freedom in Captivity

“Give me one fucking reason I shouldn’t slice your neck this second and watch you bleed out. You’ll say anything to creep into my head again, but the thing is, I need yououtof it.”

“You’re not allowed to. The Corsettis won’t let you.”

“And if I don’t care?” His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips and I instinctively lick mine. I used to enjoy his kisses more than anything in the world. He watches me intently, catching the dab of my tongue, but then his gaze lowers to the knife, to my neck, and presumably, the bead of blood.

“You do care. Because I’d be dead by now if you didn’t.”

He blinks slowly, his mouth curving in thought. “You think so?”

“Know so. You’ve been touting how much you hate me since the moment the bag was removed from my head. If you didn’t care about their trust, you wouldn’t follow their orders.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. And based on his chest against mine, doesn’t breathe either. When he finally speaks, it’s with a tone colder than I’ve ever heard from him.

“Your death will be worth it.”

The knife drags down the side of my neck but doesn’t cut me. For a second, I think I’m safe from actual harm and will only receive the mere threat of it, but then, he reaches my collarbone and slices there, and I cry out in pain.

“Stop,” I whisper in the least threatening tone I can manage. “Ma lune, stop. Please.” A feeble attempt to reach the guy I once knew but the rage taking over his expression is like nothing before. The guy I loved isn’t there anymore; this deadly, cold version of the man long consuming him, ridding him of anything peaceful and logical.

The knife continues, and he slices right through the centre of my bra, cutting it away. The material falls to the side with gravity, baring my breasts to his hardened gaze. His throat moves and my stupid body reacts to his attention the same way it always has. My nipples bud, but I tell myself, it’s from the cool basement temperatures.

The knife replaces his gaze, and the blade presses right above the areola of my right breast. I don’t hold back my whimper this time. If he’s pulling the revenge card, then he can hear exactly what he’s doing.

“That hurt.”

No response.

He stated coming down here, he wants me out of his head, and it’s clear now, he’s planning on doing exactly that—in whatever fucked-up way he can.

The knife leaves my body and for a moment, I think I’ve won. But then he clamps the blade between his teeth for free use of his hands, which dive right for the waistband of my jeans. I don’t feel his fingers undoing the buttons; don’t feel him touch the skin between my stomach and waist; don’t feel anything but my stomach flipping at the sight of him biting down on the knife.

It's messed up. Flynn’s always had a dangerous air to him from the moment I met him. When he walked over to me from the smoke pit, sucking on that gross addiction, he screamed like someone I’d be wise to avoid. Lucky for him and me, I returned home to the real-life monsters, so Flynn’s demeanour was nothing up against the real thing.

But I’m seeing what I foresaw back then. Ten years later, tatted up, playing with guns and knives—seeinghow comfortable he is with these weapons, considering the one clamped between his teeth—I hate to admit how it makes my core clench, my body heat with desires not felt in a long time.

When he yanks my jeans down my legs, I return to the moment. The cool air feels like a threat against my bare skin and he lifts each of my feet up, controlling my body as he rips the pants from me, leaving me in nothing but my panties and a cut up bra.

“Flynn. No.” I lean away from him. “What are you doing?”

He removes the knife from his mouth to reply. “Making your life a bit shittier.” He smiles, but there’s not an ounce of kindness within his gaze. A serial killer’s smile. “Reminding you how you no longer control me, Rozelyn, no matter what my mind seems to think. Fuck your lies and your deception and everything you did to me in high school.”

He cuts away my panties and strips the ripped bra from me, leaving me completely bare to his inspection. His eyes sweeping from the cut on my collarbone, down to my breasts, and over my stomach. He pauses on the trimmed strip of hair between my legs.

I don’t fight. Don’t move, or arch away. But Idoreact. Nothing visible but my body wakes up. Not that I haven’t fucked the occasional guy over the years—mainly soldiers and my father’s staff for convenience—but no one’s stared at me like Flynn is. Like Flynn alwayshas.

Hunger. A voracious study of every inch of my body, right down to my toes with their black painted nails, now chipped from it being weeks since my last pedicure. My core clenches with every sweep and despite my life literally hanging in the balance, all thoughts of danger, of my why I’m here, of taking down Dad, of finding Yasmine, are gone and replaced by one thing—him. Nothing specific, but rather everything. The memory of his touch—his hands exploring my body, his tongue lapping between my legs. The memory of his emotions—his love, his care.

“Like what you see?” I finally manage to speak.

His response: a silent, mouthed,Fuck.

“Is this helping you clear your mind of me? I’d think it’s having the opposite effect.”

My near-taunt finally jerks him into action. Eyes narrowed, he presses his thumb right against the cut he made and drags it down my chest, presumably painting me with my blood.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, seemingly to himself.

Why does this feel good?My muscles go lax, my head tipping to the side to keep him in sight but losing the strength to remain upright. His psychotic actions shouldn’t excite me the way they are.

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