Page 118 of Breaking Rosalind
“Is that really necessary?” I whisper.
Straightening, he fixes me with a glare so chilling that my teeth chatter. I clench my jaw, forcing back a surge of terror. This isn’t like me at all. I’m usually so stoic and able to withstand anything.
But this is personal. I might have come here to aid an assassination, but Cesare thinks I’m a pet.
A pet that needs punishing.
Shoulders trembling, he glares down at me and raises a pair of shears. The blades are angled and bent, with a serrated edge and rounded point.
My throat tightens. “What are you doing?”
Without another word, he lifts the edge of my catsuit and snips the sleeve, reminding me of how paramedics cut away the clothing of their patients during emergencies.
Cool metal slides against my skin, making it pebble with every snip. My heart pounds. My stomach roils. My fingers clench in anticipation of an assault.
The air hits the exposed wound, making me wince. I glance down at my shoulder, finding it soaked with blood, and cringe at the sight of the gunshot wound. The bullet still lies embedded within a dark, glistening mass of flesh.
Cesare continues cutting my clothes past the injury and up to my neck, where the catsuit falls loose, revealing my breast. I close my eyes, once again exposed.
“You’re going to be alright, pet,” he says.
My stomach plummets. He’s so calm, it’s almost sinister.
With gloved hands that still tremble with rage, he probes the edges of the wound. I tighten my fists, trying to hold myself together as sensations oscillate between stinging, throbbing, and white-hot agony.
Suspense mounts, and the tension builds so high my body surges with adrenaline and my lizard brain screams with primal fear. Any second now, he’ll plunge his finger into the wound to twist the bullet. That will be stage one of my punishment. If I lose consciousness, he’ll slap me awake, only to repeat the torment.
Instead of doing the obvious, he pulls back his fingers and strides across the infirmary. I stare at the muscles rippling on his back as he opens a cabinet, revealing organized rows of boxes, bottles, and vials.
He grabs a vial and a sharp needle, then fills the syringe with an ominous liquid. I stiffen, my eyes widening. The cabinet door clicks shut, and he stalks back to my side, his eyes glinting.
“What’s that?” I whisper.
His brows rise. “It’s not me who drugs people in secret. When I stick a woman with a needle, she knows exactly what I’m doing.”
My gaze drops to the bead of clear liquid glistening at the tip of the needle. Some psychopaths keep their captives compliant with sedatives. Others get their captives addicted to class A drugs.
Panic mounts. It’s not heroin. Heroin isn’t clear but brown. Maybe it’s something equally devastating, like crack cocaine.
“Relax,” he mutters, “It’s only local anesthetic to numb the pain while I work on your shoulder.”
The laugh that bursts out of my chest is shrill. “You’d dull my pain?”
“When I give you pain, it will be for my pleasure. Never from another man’s wound.”
Shudders course through my spine and settle into the marrow of my bones. I thought Cesare Montesano was crazy before. That knowledge hits differently as I come to terms with the fact that I’m unconditionally and irrevocably in the clutches of a psychopath.
“Take a deep breath, pet,” he says, his voice soft.
As if hypnotized, I inhale, and the needle pierces my arm. Cool liquid seeps into my veins, spreading a sense of numbness that makes my shoulder sag with relief.
Cesare sets down the needle and strokes my hair as though I’m a beloved pet he’s nursing back to health. I dart a glance up at him through my lashes to find his face still etched with hatred. It’s like he can’t decide if he wants to heal me or kill me.
Correction. He’s healing me, bringing me back to peak condition, if only so I can feel the full force of his vengeance.
Shit.
The worst part about this situation is that I don’t want to resist, at least until I feel better.