Page 13 of These Monstrous Ties

I wait until Kristof flosses, spits mouthwash in his sink, picks up a towel from the pile of them on the floor to wrap around his waist. Then he turns his gaze to me. There’s a bed between us. California king, what once was probably white sheets—clearly, he forgoes housekeeping in this place—and a scattering of weapons. Guns, mainly. A few knives. Handcuffs. I don’t know if those are for bad guys or bad girls, or maybe both.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror over our heads.

My grey eyes are smudged with shadows, my short hair simultaneously a mess, and still stick straight. I look skeletal in that mirror, craning my neck back like that.

I shudder. It reminds me of last Halloween.

Of Lucifer.

I force the thought away.

My bare thighs are pale. My entire body is pale.

Everything in here is a shade of white.

But it’s about to get splashed with red.

Kristof takes his time striding around the bed, letting his towel slip free from his overly muscled body as he does. I have no idea how old Kristof is. I’m not even sureKristofknows how old Kristof is, but if I had to guess, probably his mid-thirties. Not too old to be fucking a 20-year-old, but old enough to know rape is a serious crime. But everything the Rain family and their associates do is a serious crime.

Hell, we’d just left a corpse.

Kristof stops a few feet from me, leveling his gaze.

“You should know better than to speak to Mr. Rain that way. To refuse him.”

I spit on the floor. “Mr. Rain?” I mock him. “Did he take your balls away?”

He narrows his eyes in a momentary rage, but before he lunges for me, he thinks the better of it. Instead, he brings a hand to his cock, stroking himself.

I appraise it for the first time.

It is, unsurprisingly, big. Kristof is big. It only fits.

But I don’t want it.

I whistle, pretending to be impressed.

He actually has the audacity to smile, as if this thing between us might become consensual at any moment.

Then he takes a step forward.

I keep the smile on my face.

Another step.

And then I lunge for him.

The blade finds his thigh, and I push it in hard, sinking it in to the hilt, working its way through muscle and tendons. This is the first time I’ve stabbed a real flesh-and-blood person, and not a dummy Jeremiah lets me practice on. And the good news is, I do it well.

Kristof doesn’t expect it.

For a moment, he only stands there. I glance up at him, seeing the surprise in his blue eyes as he gazes down at the blade sticking out of his leg. Blood wells around the entrance, but for just a second, we’re both frozen. Me from the strange mix of adrenaline coursing through my veins, heady and intoxicating, and him from, hopefully, the pain.

Then I yank the blade out.

He screams, although from Kristof, it sounds more like a roar.

“Youbitch!”he hisses, his hands coming to either side of his massive thighs. I dart around him, taking my chance while I have it, the blade in my hand. Kristof might be huge, and I might be little, but that’s where my advantage lies. In the running.