Page 128 of Madness & Mercy

He stares at me, unflinching.

“But then Imetyou,” I whisper. “And everything changed.”

The quiet between us is suffocating. I actually did it. I told himeverything.It feels like a weight is lifted, but Ihave no idea if I just signed my own death warrant… or finally told him what he needed to hear.

After a long, aching silence, I lift my head and force the words out.

“You believe me… right?”

Nico doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at me with darkness in his eyes, and it’sterrifying.

“You’ve been lying to me since day one,” he finally says, his voice low and cold. “So no. I don’t.”

My throat tightens. He takes a slow step forward, then another. Each one echoes on the concrete like a ticking time bomb.

“What should I do with you?” he murmurs, almost to himself.

I flinch but don’t respond.

He closes the distance in a heartbeat, his hand snapping up to my throat. Not squeezing,not yet, but firm enough to make my pulse stutter. There’s no pain, just pressure. A silent warning. Apromise.He’s showing me exactly howeasyit would be to break me.

And all I can do is stare into those dark, endless, furious eyes.

Eyes that sayI could destroy you.

Eyes that sayyou’d let me.

“I asked you a question, Cross,” he continues.

Jesus Christ. The way he’s looking at me, like he’s two seconds from slitting my throat andgetting offto the sound, it’s making my brain short-circuit. Heat pools low in my gut, molten and shameful. I’m tied up. Helpless. Andfuck me,I’m hard.

“Do whatever you want,” I rasp, barely able to breathe.

That wicked smile spreads across his face, slow and cruel.

“Whatever I want?” he echoes, reaching into his back pocket.

He pulls out a knife,myknife. The same one I tried to use on him.

Still gripping my throat, he presses the blade to my jaw, light enough not to cut, but firm enough to feel the threat behind it.

He drags the blade down, tracing a path down my collarbone to my chest. I’m shaking, but not just from fear.

The tip pauses at the top of my shirt. Then—

Riiiip.

The fabric tears open under the blade, exposing my chest, my stomach, the bulge beneath my pants.

He stops there, smirking, finally letting go of my throat.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” he says, clearly amused. “Lurido puttanello. Così duro per me.”

I have no fucking clue what that means, but it sounds filthy. Everything he says in his language instantly turns me on. Always has.

My pulse pounds. My wrists are still bound, useless. There’s no hiding the way I’m straining in my pants, no excuse for the way my body’s reacting to him, to this, toall of it.

“You’re trembling,” he observes, running the flat of the blade along my inner thigh, then pressing just hard enough to make me gasp.