Page 18 of The Contract

His tongue drips with salty amusement. Apparently, a tongue that’s well versed in Italian.

“Such language,” he muses.

“Eager for another spank on that pretty ass, Zapretnaya?”

No.

No, I am not.

And—what the hell is Zapretnaya?

In polar opposition to my nature, I bite back the retort locked and loaded in the chamber, shut my eyes, and brace for impact.

But…nothing comes.

No sting. No heat. No smug correction.

He just starts moving again.

Unbothered. Quiet.

Like the moment never happened.

And I hate it. I can take a lot. Hell, I’ve taken worse.

My step-monster’s weapon of choice varied. But locking me in a closet, it was always the silence that lingered.

The thing about silence is it doesn’t echo. It seeps. And the longer it stretches, the heavier it gets.

A crushing weight on a glass vase—pressing down, cracking me from all sides—until it’s only a matter of time before I shatter.

And the ache, the emptiness of missing Kennedy and Da, and the pathetic need not to be ignored by a psychotic stranger.

Everything burns like a million tiny paper cuts bathed in tequila.

It’s too much.

Too much…

I channel every ounce of pent-up pissed-offedness into the zip tie cutting into my wrists—and bite. Hard.

Gnawing at it like a feral animal. Until blood rips from my skin. From the tie. From my teeth.

Not because it’ll necessarily work…but because fighting feels better than falling apart.

And I am so goddamned close to falling apart.

“Leave it.”

His growl vibrates through his body and into my chest. Still, I don’t stop. I never can.

“This is your last warning.”

Still chewing.

Still pretending my bones aren’t shaking.

His steps slow.

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