Page 16 of Peak Cruelty

One beat.Two.Five.

Let him wait.Let him wonder.

He can wait.He already chose that.

But I can feel it—that flicker of impatience, the kind predators get when the hunt’s over but they’re still hungry for the chase.

Eventually, I speak.

Not because I want to.

Because silence, stretched too long, starts to look like submission.

“If you’re waiting for gratitude, you’re going to be disappointed.”

He doesn’t react at first.Not with a shift.Not with a word.Then, slowly, he leans forward.Hands loose between his knees.

His posture is relaxed—the way someone might sit if they were deciding which knife to use.

When he smiles, it looks practiced—like he’s rehearsed it in a mirror, just to see if it could pass for human.

He studies me a second longer, then says it as though we’re already halfway through something intimate.

“Didn’t peg you for the quiet type.”

Not a greeting.Not concern.Just a test—his voice low, curious, like he’s wondering how far I bend before I snap.

He leans back, giving me space he didn’t ask to take.The kind that makes you aware of your body.

“I was beginning to think you’d sleep through the whole thing.Would’ve ruined the pacing.”

He smiles as though he just offered me a glass of wine instead of restraints.

There’s a script for men like him.

And I’ve read it too many times to pretend the ending changes.

So I wait.Say nothing.Let the silence stretch and see how long he’ll follow the thread.

He leans in again—just slightly.Just enough.

“You should know,” he says, like he’s offering something secret.

“This isn’t my first time.”

A line.A warning.Maybe a promise.

He lets it hang there, then adds—quieter this time, almost thoughtful:

“I don’t always start with conversation.But you looked like someone who might appreciate the illusion.”

My fingers tense against the restraints.

He notices.

Of course he does.

But it’s what he says next that draws the cold all the way down my spine.

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