Page 8 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

S he doesn’t open her eyes.

I told her to. That should’ve been enough.

Maybe it’s the sedative. Maybe it’s defiance. Either way, it’s a problem.

I move closer, watching the way she lies there—breathing steady. Too steady. No panic. No fight.

It’s not what I’m used to.

Most women thrash. Scream. Fight as though survival’s still on the table.

She doesn’t.

She’s got nerve. I’ll give her that.

I rub the back of my neck. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I can improvise—but I appreciate knowing what comes next. And right now, I don’t.

I shove a hand through my hair, trying to move the unease somewhere it doesn’t show.

This is a rental. I’ve got seven days.

And she and I have plans.

I glance down at her fingers—twitching. Small, intentional. She’s testing the restraints.

As though I didn’t already account for that.

Interesting.

She’s not panicking. She’s pacing herself.

I straighten up.

She’s lying there, still. Eyes shut. Like silence is a tactic. Like I’m the one who should be making the next move.

It’s almost impressive.

Fine. Let her cling to control.

To the illusion of it, anyway.

She’s not built for this. But I’ll let her pretend she is.

I shift closer, keep my voice even. “You know, most people in your situation would’ve opened their eyes by now.”

Nothing.

This was supposed to begin with rapport. She’s forcing ritual.

I stand there, watching the rise and fall of her chest.

There’s always something I can use.

Pain doesn’t need volume—it needs precision. You don’t leave bruises. You leave doubt.

Knuckles to the ribs—deep, slow, meant to linger.

Or a wrist twisted back—not far enough to break, just enough to suggest it could.

Heat works, too. Not flame—just a threat. Candle wax. Hot metal.

Or something simpler. Pressure. Dull, exact. Perhaps a needle just beneath the skin, again and again, until even air starts to feel like glass.

She’s holding her breath as though she’s reading my thoughts. Waiting .

I lean in. Her breath ghosts the space between us—barely there. Her chest rises, falls—tight, shallow. Like a possum playing dead, waiting for the danger to lose interest.

“I’m not asking anymore,” I say. “Open your eyes.”

Still nothing.

Not a twitch.

Either the sedative’s lagging—or she’s testing me.

Cute. But it gets old fast.

Either way, she’s making me wait .

And I don’t like waiting.