Page 8 of Alamort

I need to go through my manuscript of papers for the school and see what time my appointment is in the morning with the dean. I hope he isn’t an entitled prick. That would be a great way to start my school year with an asshole who thinks he’s holier than thou.

My mental checklist is interrupted when an arm abruptly yanks me off the path and drags me behind a tree. I let out a shriek that’s quickly stifled by a leather gloved hand that covers half my face. A small, sharp object pokes at the side of my throat. Terror has me frozen in place for a second before an eerie calm replaces it.

I don’t care if they kill me. Do me the favor and put me out of my misery. Compared to what I endure daily, it would be bliss. Always on edge around people because I have ingrained thebelief that every sudden movement could pose a possible threat. The thought of people’s hands on me makes my skin crawl. Constantly living in fear.

The perfect contradiction of living without being alive. Pretending to be someone I’m not to people who couldn’t care less about me. Pointless conversations about who I am and how I’m doing when no one cares.

Every day is the same, wash, rinse, repeat. I let out a harsh, muffled laugh that makes me sound insane. Who am I kidding? I’m just as fake as all the people I complain about. Can’t even properly fake a smile. The irony.

Who would miss me?

My heart stutters, remembering the only person who would care is missingfromme. Addison.

An irritated sigh leaves me at the obligation to continue on for my other half.

I don’t know how much more of this I can do, Addi.

I’m tired of feeling too much or nothing at all. My laughter fades and my thoughts sober. I try to think about what all those shows tell you to do. Usually, they play dead after they've been stabbed, but I've noticed that in most cases, the ones who fight the hardest end up inflicting the most damage to themselves. If I faint, would that work?

The smell of leather, sandalwood, and lighter fluid permeates the air. My mouth waters at the smell, and arousal flushes through my body, sending mixed signals. It’s the lighter fluid smell. It has to be. He inhales a path from the base of my neck up toward the carotid artery that houses my fluttering pulse. Pausing to lick the shell of my ear. A shudder runs through my body at the foreign touch. He lets out a dark chuckle at my body’s response, leaving goosebumps where his warm breath touches.

“I’m gonna release your mouth if you scream… I’ll slit your throat from cheek to cheek. Have you choking on your bloodbefore the first syllable of ‘help’ gets out.” He nips at my earlobe. He has some sort of accent. British? I rack my brain thinking if I’ve overheard anyone today with anything other than an American accent during dinner. I didn’t notice anyone following me outside. I was too busy in my head to take much notice of my surroundings. Pity.

Was he… was he waiting for me? It dawns on me that my razor blade is tucked into the bottom of my black bag in my room. There goes the plan of stabbing my way out of this. My shoulders slump at the difficult situation I put myself in. I nod so he’ll release my mouth.

“Hands behind your back.” He instructs. At least he smells good, right? I cringe at myself trying to find a silver lining in a shitty situation.

Reluctantly, I slowly place my arms behind my back as he ties them together with no slack. The sting across my wrists has me sucking in a breath between my teeth. In an attempt to relieve the pressure on my wrists, my shoulders are pulled back and my breasts push out.

“Good girl,” he praises, petting my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut when warmth floods through me at the approval. Ew. I justify my reaction by realizing I never received praise from my parents that I desperately searched for growing up. That has to be why two simple words are having this effect.

“Why?” I whisper. I swallow when he places the knife back at my throat. Ignoring me, his hand slips up my hoodie. I lean away from his prying hands, resulting in resting further into him. Realizing my mistake too late and giving him better access to dip under my bra and cup my breast. The gloves are icy from the air. He’s gentle at first, then roughly twists my pebbled nipple, drawing a shocked gasp from me. I move away from the pain, but his forearm flexes and tightens around my chest.

“Barely anything to grab onto.”

My face burns with humiliation. “Then stop fucking touching me!” I seethe between clenched teeth. I can feel his smile through my hair. This is just a game to him.

“I’m more of an ass man. Watching the way it jiggles as I pound into you from behind while you’re begging me to stop.” He grabs a handful of my jeans, emphasizing his words, squeezing to the point of pain before releasing.

His large hand roams up towards my throat, not enough to restrict my airflow, but enough to send me on the verge of a panic attack to a trip down memory lane. I struggle to breathe, my vision blurs at the edges. Picturing my father’s hands around my throat, in front of me, spewing words of hatred before I’m lost in the darkness.

He buries his nose into my hair and then inhales deeply. Is he smelling me?

“You’re so much more beautiful than we thought you’d be.” His knife traces almost lovingly down my collarbone, pulling me out of my memories. It feels sensual, a whisper on my skin. Wait, ‘We’? Who is ‘we’?

“But sadder than we expected.” His words are like a pebble thrown in, disturbing my calm. The long drawn out pause letting the words settle over him has my hackles raising. His head tilts like he’s listening for something. “Your eyes say more than your mouth ever will.” Another dramatic pause from him before he continues. “The eyes never lie. A poetic twat. He needs to mend and coddle it better. Attracted to broken things.” He shakes his head. The irritation is clear in his tone. This guy is crazy. Certifiably. If there’s a ‘we’, why is he the only one tasked with doing the dirty work? Who are the others?

I strain my ears, listening to hear if there’s another person around with us, or even farther away. Only to be met with the chirping of crickets and whispers of the wind on my skin. The hoots of an owl are the loudest, and I count it out twice. Holdingmy breath, I wait for the third hoot to bring the superstition of death to fruition.

“Are you going to kill me?” I need to know the answer, whether to give myself peace of mind or mentally check to see if I’m okay with it as I claim I am. I’m saved from having to do self-reflection when he thinks it over.

“No, not today, unfortunately. Today is a social call.” Relief floods through me. His hand lets go of my throat, wandering down my body to the waistband of my jeans, slowly using the knife to tease underneath the button.

“A reminder that you’re exactly where we want you to be.” As soon as it pops open, I clench my teeth to keep myself from doing or saying something stupid. We’re cheek to cheek. The stubble on his jaw scratches my skin. In tune with how he’s clenching his in response, my every exhale he greedily inhales like his own personal life source.

Loosening his grip a fraction, it gives me some breathing room. A jerk of my hair followed by a snip. Uh ouch? What the fuck? I use that minor distraction to my advantage, hopefully making contact with something that’ll allow me to get closer to the path of the dorms. Using whatever strength I can muster, I bring my leg forward and rear it back as hard as I can. Only to connect with air. His hand that was unzipping my jeans quickly moves and squeezes my throat much harder this time, while pressure is applied to my pelvic area. A reminder of the sharp knife pushing back into my skin, hard enough to leave a cut. A hiss leaves at the sting.

“I’ll give you a reason to scream if you don’t stop kicking about.”

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