Page 20 of The Prey
Her blue eyes blink rapidly, and I look away before I fall into their depths. “I can’t. It’s way too short; never mind the fact that I’ll look like a can of busted biscuits in it.”
All I hear are complaints when what I need is for her to do what she’s fucking told. I’m irritable and snappy and just need her to do what I say, when I say it.
“Enough,” I shout but then slam my mouth shut, my teeth clashing against one another, and I realize a moment too late that she’s enraged me to the point that I’m yelling.
I strive for control, and somehow, this tiny scrap of a woman has found a way to shatter that. When it comes to her, I go from zero to a hundred in an ,instant.
I need to calm down before I do something really fucking stupid. I force a ragged breath into my lungs, hoping the fresh oxygen will stop me from strangling her. Nope, not helping. I let my eyes fall closed and sink into that feeling of relief. Okay…let’s try this again. I blink my eyes open, and this time I glance from the floor, then back up to her face.
Like a random rainstorm, the anger, annoyance, and frustration return, threatening to pour out of me. I drag a hand through the mess of my blond hair and tug at the strands to the point of pain. It’s only ever Ely. Only this one infuriating female who can?—
Fuck.
This stops now. All of it. I refuse to let her crawl under my skin and undo me from the inside out. No more threatening her. No more excuses. It’s time that I play my part. It’s time that I show her who I really am.
“I’m not trying to be difficult…” Her voice wobbles, a slow tremble rippling through her slim body. She’s afraid, but the drugs that linger in her system make her braver, more flexible.
I snarl my upper lip and leer toward her. “That’s the problem. You tell me you aren’t trying to be difficult, but you still are. So let me make this easier for you…” I reach for the knife I carry on me at all times. It’s a small switchblade, but it will do the job.
I tug it free from my slacks and open it in one swift motion. The knife cuts through the air with a swish. Elyse reacts with a gasp, her blue eyes shining with fear. She takes a step back, and being the prey that she is, instinct alone is ordering her to run. Part of me wants to tell her to do that.
Do it. Run, Little Prey. It’ll make hunting you down and taking what I want all the more fun.
The other part of me, the saner side, knows her running will not end well, for me, yes, but her, not so much, Which is why I choose to go a different route entirely.
Regarding the blade of the knife, I point the tip at her. “What am I removing first?”
“W-what?”
“You heard me, Ely! Is it really that difficult? Put the goddamn dress on, or I'll take you to the event naked, and trust me, Little Prey, this isn’t the sort of place you want to go stark-ass naked. It might lead someone to believe you’re for sale or, worse, that you want to play in one of their games. The choice is yours: belong to me or belong to a stranger. But stop dicking around, or I’ll make the choice for you.”
I take another step, bringing myself even closer. The tip of the knife catches in the dim light that illuminates the space from the bathroom. It gleams, and for a moment, I wonder what it might look like with her blood on it, but before I let that image bloom in my mind, it disappears.
Staring her down, I gently press the blade against the spot where her heartbeat beats a frantic tattoo at the hollow of her throat.
“What’s your choice, Prey?”
9
Elyse
The cold edge of steel grazes my skin, and I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating his next move. Maybe if I don't look at the sharp blade, it won't hurt as badly when he cuts me with it. Memories pour in, another blade, another time, and I grit my teeth, pushing them away. I can’t deal with those right now.
This is it. This is what I get for ruining all his clothes, for the smart-ass remarks, for the way he grinds his teeth every time he looks at me, like my very presence is a burden to him. It’s time to pay for my sins, and his form of currency is blood.
The sharp, slick sound of my shirt slicing apart punctuates my panting breaths. Cold air brushes my skin as he rips the remnants of my shirt off. It catches on my arms, twisting and stinging as the material tightens around my flesh, even more so near the scar from the bullet wound on my shoulder.
“Fuck,” I curse and twist so I can pull the ripped-up sleeves off myself. “Dammit, Sebastian, I can do it.” I barely recognize the antagonism in my own voice.
The fear and the drugs create the perfect storm of self-indulgence that I forget, for one heartbeat, who I’m yelling at.
He raises one imperious brow at me and flips the knife expertly in his palm so the sharp edge points down along his wrist, then jerks the waist of my pants away from my skin and slices downward. The flat edge of the steel brushes along my hipbone as the serrated metal slices away more fabric, the thin khaki giving way far too easily.
It almost peels away instead of cutting or ripping.
I’m greeted with the kiss of more cold air on my bare flesh, and I shiver, both at the chill and the feral look that shines in his eyes and reflects back at me.
The ribbons of my pants hang on my thin hips, and he moves to slice the other side of them. I need to put an end to this before it goes too far, and he really does cut me. I hold my hands up and plead with him.