Page 38 of Merciless

Our eyes hold for a couple of seconds more before he drops his in favor of cutting the rope.

He starts with my right wrist, sawing through the rough rope until the final strands snap, releasing me.

I whimper as I lift my sore arm, my muscles aching from how long they’ve been locked in the same position.

My wrist is red and raw from the unforgiving rope and I cradle it against my damp chest as he sets to work on the second one.

“Ow, fuck,” I hiss when the blade slips and cuts into my wrist.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” he says regretfully as he hops up and rushes behind me.

He returns a couple of seconds later with some tissue that he presses to the cut that’s dripping blood on the floor. I guess it’s only right that some of mine is added to the stains.

“Crap, that’s really bleeding,” he says, pulling the tissue away to inspect it.

“Just cut me free,” I demand.

“Shit. Yeah.”

A little more hesitantly than before, he works his way through. The second I’m free, I lift my wrist from the armrest and hold it up to stop the blood flow.

He watches me as I cradle it to my chest with regret glittering in his eyes.

“Don’t pretend you care,” I snap.

“Dove, I—”

“Don’t. Just finish the job and lock me back up again.”

He wants to argue, I can see it on every inch of his face. But he won’t. Despite my teasing, he knows better than to defy Reid Harris’s order. Being the psycho’s best friend might come with some perks, but he can only push things so far.

With a sigh, he lowers down and begins cutting the bindings around my ankles.

“And be careful. If Reid wishes for me to bleed to death then something tells me that he’ll want to cause it himself.”

“Fucking control freak,” JD mutters.

If the situation were different, I might laugh. But as it is, I’m shutting down faster than I want to confess to.

All I want is to crawl onto the cot in my room, curl up in a ball and retreat to that place inside myself I discovered when I was little and experienced some of the worst days of my life.

In short and thankfully pain-free minutes, both of my ankles are released.

The second he moves back, I push to my feet.

I wobble violently as my body fights to comply, after sitting still and in one position for so long, but I refuse help, slapping his hand away when he reaches out to steady me.

“I can see myself to my cell. Just lock me inside and walk away.”

“Dove,” he warns, but I’ve no interest in hearing what he might have to say.

I’m done. So fucking done.

My clothes are still wet and cold. I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and my wrists and ankles burn like fuck.

But it’s the pain in my chest that I’m suffering with the most.

I’m sorry, Kristie.

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