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“No? Then why are you playing house with him?”
Jealousy coils in his voice like barbed wire. The realization that someone’s been watching me settles deep in the pit of my stomach as it knots itself into a frenzy.
“You know what pisses me off the most?” he says, his voice laced with cruel amusement. He leans in slowly, predator-smooth, until I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin. “I started to like you, Maxine. And I never even got a taste.”
His words slide like oil down my spine. And then—he makes a mistake. He gets too close. Without thinking, I lunge. My mouth clamps down on his ear, teeth sinking deep like a wild fucking animal. Cartilage crunches. The taste of iron floods my tongue. He screams—a raw, primal roar that tears through the room as he jerks backward, but I hold on.
My jaws lock like a vice, and I refuse to let go, despite his screams. He’s thrashing now, fists pounding into my shoulder, my ribs, screaming curses that barely register. And still—I bite down harder.
When he finally rips away, a wet tear splits the air—and part of his ear stays behind in my mouth.
He stumbles back, howling, one hand clutched to the bloody wreck of his ear, the other flailing for something—anything—to strike me with. But I’m already spitting the flesh to the floor, blood dripping from my chin like war paint.
My heart beats like a drum in my chest, slamming so loud I can barely hear his screams. I don’t regret it. Let him bleed. I want him to roar. To know what it feels like to be tormented, abused. Because I won’t roll over and be a victim again. Last time, I went quietly. This time, I’ll go out kicking and screaming, perhaps leaving behind a battered body or two. I’m not above doing what needs to be done in the name of self-preservation.
The pain in my ribs burns like fire, every breath sharp, every nerve lit up. But it’s nothing compared to the satisfaction blooming deep in my gut. He thought I was soft. Thought the binds would make me helpless. But I’m anything but soft. And I’m sure as hell not broken. I’m fucking feral. And now he knows it.
He’s pacing like a caged animal, blood streaming between his fingers, fury curling off him in waves. I should be terrified—but I’m not. For the first time since this nightmare began, I feelpower. Even tied to a chair and bleeding. Even half a second away from hell. Because I hurt him.
“Guess you got your taste after all,” I rasp, voice shaking but venomous. “You don’t get to touch me.Ever.”
His groan turns into a snarl. His hand clutches the remnants of his ear, eyes wild and wet with pain. But I see it—beneath the humiliation, beneath the seething smouldering malice—there’s shame. And I’m sure it stems from me besting him, because he wasn’t expecting me to fight back.
“You stupid bitch!” he screams, dragging himself toward me, legs wobbling.
He lunges for me. But the door at the top of the stairs flies open and light floods the basement. Zack freezes mid-step and turns toward the light. I can just make out the silhouette of a man at the top of the stairs, before there’s a sharp slam, then the sound of heavy footsteps as he descends the stairs.
The man reaches the bottom of the stairs with a thump, pauses and puts his hands behind his back. He’s a portrait of power wrapped in a suit that cost more than most people’s annual salary. I know him. I’ve seen his face before, half-lit by extravagant chandeliers and filtered through the haze of expensive cigar smoke. He was one of the bidders the night they sold me to Altin Kadri. How could I ever forget a face like that—cold, polished, and dripping with entitlement? I remember the way he looked at me. Like I wasn’t a person. Just flesh. Product, meant to be bartered, traded like livestock.
Evil has a way of etching itself into your memory, like scars you stop noticing until they start to burn again. He’s not just another suit. No, this one’s different. Calculated. Cruel. He moves like he owns the room—and the bodies in it. He must be one of the major players in the human trafficking ring that stole me. One of the architects of my nightmare.
His gaze flicks from me—taped, bloodied, defiant—to Zack, standing there, panting, humiliated, minus one ear.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, looking at Zack with disgust. “I told you not to play with the merchandise.”
Zack straightens too fast, wincing. “She—she bit me.”
The man sighs, steps forward, the room swallowing his presence like it’s gravity itself. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just exists, and the room bends around him.
“Of course she did,” he says simply, tone low and unimpressed. “You must have provoked her. You weren’t supposed to come down here.”
“I was managing it,” Zack snaps.
The man doesn’t reply. He just tilts his head, like a teacher watching a failing student double down on stupidity. “No. You were proving why I never should’ve trusted you with this assignment.”
Zack bristles. “I had her. She was opening up to me. She liked me.”
“Did she?” the man asks, cutting him open with the question. Then he turns his black eyes back on me with my bloody mouth, before his eyes fall to the ground where Zack’s ear lies. “Doesn’t look like it.”
Zack glares at me, all pretense gone. “You’re going to pay for that, Maxine.” He moves again, fury behind the stumble. But the man’s arm shoots out, catching him square in the chest.
“Leave.”
Zack blinks. “What?”
“Get out,” the man repeats. “Before you embarrass yourself any further.”
Zack looks between us—anger, humiliation, something dark brewing behind his eyes.