Page 36 of Peak Cruelty

He says nothing.But I sense his hesitation.He’s not sure.

I keep my eyes shut.Jaw loose.Breathing so shallow it barely qualifies.

There’s a pause.Then a footstep.Closer.Then another.

He crouches.I feel the weight of his gaze before I feel his hand.

Two fingers press against the side of my neck.Too clinical to be gentle, too slow to be indifferent.Like he’s checking the oil in a car he doesn’t drive.He holds them there and waits.

Gives up and lifts my wrist.

Ends up with his hands in my mouth.His thumb grazes the edge of my lips.Pulls slightly at the corner.Checking for moisture.Swallow response.Death cues.

He pauses—just long enough that it stops feeling medical.

He leans in.I can feel his breath, warm and sharp, like he’s trying to sniff out a lie.

Still, I don’t move.

Not even when he places his palm over my sternum.Like he’s checking for a heartbeat.Or reminding me he could stop it.

I hold it one more second.

Then I open my eyes.

“Well done, you.I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed an examination more.”

His expression doesn’t change, but I see it—the smallest pull in his posture.Not anger.Worse.

Interest.

He pulls his hand back slowly.Watches me like he’s waiting for the punchline.

So I give it to him.

“If I wanted to die,” I say, “I’d have married someone like you.”

He stares at me for a long beat without saying anything.

Then, casually: “You sound like someone who’s made peace with her situation.”

“If you were smarter, you would have come to that conclusion twenty-four hours ago.”

I look at him when I say the next part.“And that’s the problem.”

The words land.Not like a slap.Like a scalpel.

He crosses the room again—this time slower.

Leans down until he’s at eye level.

“You think this is funny.”

“No,” I say.“I think this is boredom in a well-decorated house.”

He studies me.Not like I’m defiant.Like I’m defective.

Then: “You think anyone’s coming for you?”

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