Page 20 of Thorns Laced In Blood

He was still in his work clothes, that expensive suit he liked to peel off layer by layer like he was undressing for church. But tonight, something was off. His tie hung around his collar. His left eyelid flickered. And his smile, it’s not the cold, calculated one. It’s twitchy.

“Long day, doll.” His voice is sandpaper wrapped in velvet.

I don’t move. The penknife was still hidden, but my pulse screamed like it’d already been found. Or did he find the hole? He crouched in front of me, reeking of whiskey and the mint gum he chewed to cover it. His fingers tapped on his knee, but my heartbeat was much faster than his tapping.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” he said, his voice dangerous and low.

His hand darted out, grabbing my chin. His thumb pressed too hard against my bottom lip, smearing the Vaseline I’d put on my dry lips.“Open.”

I don’t. Fear, real fear, burned in my gut.

His eyelid jumped.

“I said—”

The backhand cracked across my cheek before I heard the rest. My head snapped to the side, but he was already grabbing my hair, yanking me upright.

“You stole,” he said as spit landed on my face.“After everything I’ve done.”

His free hand digs into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen lights up— and I watch in horror. The video. Me. The friend. The moment my fingers closed around the penknife.

“Look at it,” he screamed, shaking me, but the phone screen blurred.“Look at it!”

The rage is hot now, boiling out of him in uneven bursts. He kicked the table over, sending me sprawling. The concrete bit into my elbows, but I don’t make a sound. My silence pissed him off more.

“You ungrateful little—” he started to say but grabbed the metal bed frame, slamming it against the wall hard enough for me to cling onto the metal leg because I remembered the hole.“I should fucking strangle the life out of you.”

He paused and took a deep breath. In and out. He straightened his cuffs. Adjusted his watch.

“Get up,” he said, but his voice was suddenly calm. Too calm.“Shower. Now.”

The twitch in his eye was gone, but the storm wasn't over. It was just the beginning. I released the bed frame and quickly stood up. He strode to the door while I rushed after him. I pulled my T-shirt off before we got to the shower room. All I could see was the dead girl’s eyes. If he found the hole, I was as good as dead.

The shower door slammed behind me, and suddenly, the small room was white, billowing clouds of steam swallowing the mirrors, the ceiling, and him. His fingers dug into my arm as he shoved me under the spray, but the heat didn’t register. Not yet.

“You liked playing the thief?” His voice was muffled in the fog.“Let’s see how you play with fire.”

The knob cranked up, and the water scalded me. I choked back a scream as my skin turned lobster-red, the steam so thick now I couldn’t see his face—just the twitch of his shadow through the vapour, the glint of his ring as he fisted my hair.

“Breathe it in,” he hissed.

I breathed it into my lungs. The burn was too much, and I cried out. For one dizzy second, I wasn’t in the shower. I was in the crematorium where they’d reduced Dad to ashes.

He tossed the washcloth and bottle at me, breaking me free from the memory. I quickly began to wash myself, but every time I edged away from the scalding water, he pushed me back in.

When I was almost finished, he turned the water off, but before I could turn around, his fingers gripped my hair, and he smashed my face off the white tiles. The last thing I saw was my blood dripping down the tiles.

When I woke up again I was lying on my stomach with my hands and feet bound to the bed frame. My skin burned and itched from the scalding shower. The sound of his belt buckle made my head jerk.

“I chose you, and this is how you repay me,” he muttered as the bed strained under his weight.

I groaned as his clothes touched my aching skin. His fingers pulled my ass cheeks apart, and without warning, he began to push his cock against my asshole. I was grateful for the cream I used on it because he was using nothing. Not even spit.

“Were you going to use the knife on me, doll?” he hissed into my ear before thrusting himself into me, forcing my flesh open. “Huh?”

“No,” I gasped out. “I like to cut myself sometimes. I did it as a kid.”

“Liar,” he shouted before he shoved into me again.

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