Page 7 of Moth
“Why is that her problem?” I croak while glancing at Mara. Lurking on the periphery, she hasn’t left me at least. Her eyes meet mine, wide and frightful, and she waves toward me in a frantic motion.Run!As if leaving would be so easy.
“Why?” His harsh bark of laughter draws my attention back to him. He forms a fist and props his chin onto it, probing deep with those merciless eyes. “I don’t know what cul-de-sac you skipped out of, but here in the real world? We pay for the sins of others, whether related to us by blood or not. It’s the way the fucking cookie crumbles. You suffer for Chan, and she’ll have to bear the weight of her daddy’s gambling addiction.”
It sounds like something a movie villain would say, but in a sense, he’s right. I know that better than anyone. Be them the sins of a father, or a brother…some of us are destined to live out our lives tainted by the crimes of others. No matter what we do, they haunt us.
Constantly. My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up, and even from here, I know who’s calling.Branden.
Laughing, the man picks it up from the couch and glances at the home screen. His already permanent smirk stretches. “Should I answer it?” he ponders, inclining his head toward me.
He’s baiting me.
But I bite, lurching forward even as I clutch at the edge of my seat with both hands to keep from really moving. “Don’t.”
Am I even worried for myself? No. Maybe Mara instead? Or my fragile freedom. This space. Branden would stop at nothing to drag me back into the cage he’s built around me and lock it shut for good if he suspects for a second that I’m not playing by his rules.
In some ways, this manshouldanswer the call. Once he’s done with me, Branden would burn this place to the ground…
But I wouldn’t wish his wrath on anyone.
“Don’t.”
He chuckles again, stroking the outside of my phone with his thumb. But for all his games, his eyes keep flicking toward the screen, reading the name I’ve programmed in for my brother—Bran <3. The heart is symbolic, but he wouldn’t know that.
He lifts his thumb, letting it hover over the touch screen. When he lowers it, I suck in a breath. Rather than the green answer button, he strikes the red one to dismiss the call instead.
Relief escapes me in a sharp exhale. Branden will just call back, irritated that I didn’t answer, but already bored, the man drops my phone into my bag and shoves it aside.
With little effort, he reclaims my journal and flips it open to a different page. I recognize the various scribbled lines—my latest piece, the rough draft of an essay assignment. The single essay that may or may not decide if I continue school next semester.
“You write about lying a lot, rabbit,” he remarks while scanning my words. “Maybe you really are a fucking reporter?Lies spilled like bated breaths. Suffocation inevitable. Drowning…” Smirking, he looks up, forcing eye contact. “What’s a bunny got to hide from?”
“Why do you care?” I rasp. Internally, I’m more shocked that he could make that kind of assumption from a few words scattered throughout.
He chuckles, seemingly amused by my reaction. “Deceiver. Falsifier.” He’s rattling off my various scribbled titles by heart. “You must have plenty of secrets to tell, rabbit.”
“And you must be really bored to pick on some random girl over a journal.”
“So she bites as well as speaks.” He raises an eyebrow, another wry smile playing over his mouth. “I’m curious, rabbit…” he tells me, leaving the implication dangling so that I’m forced to ask.
“Why?”
He sits back, stroking his chin. “Why you have those sad, fucking bunny eyes.” A newer emotion makes his eyes narrow further—annoyance. “A normal person would have run by now, rabbit. They would have made good on their threat to call the police. Otherwise, they’d be crying. Begging. You haven’t done a fucking one of those things—” His teeth flash, his gaze piercing. “Why is that?”
I clench my jaw shut, but a reply slips out regardless. “I guess you just like terrorizing people—”
“And you haven’t answered my question.” He sits forward again, bracing both of his hands on his knees. Then he lunges.
I don’t even have the chance to react before he’s beside me, his arm thrown over my shoulder, his breath on my throat. Then ice. Cold. Sharpness…
I recognize the feeling, and I go rigid, picturing the size of the blade he must have tracing along the very edge of my windpipe. Nothing too large. A pocket knife? He holds it there teasingly, daring me to pull away.
But I don’t.
I can’t. All I can do is flex my fingers, grasping at the air. It’s all I caneverdo.
Suffocate.
But I’m used to my tormentor demanding silence—not this.
