Page 30 of Sinners Atone
A noise escapes my lips, strangled and guttural. He glances up, disinterested, before laying something wrapped in black leather on the table before him.
With a flick of his wrist, it unrolls, revealing slithers of silver that wink in the light of the candle. Different shapes and sizes. All with sharp edges.
A set of knives.
Now would be a good time for my body to work, even just part of it. My feet, my voice, or my common sense.
“Choose one.”
My eyes snap back up to his.
“W-what?”
“I warned you.”
My pulse aches from throbbing as I remember his earlier warning.Stick your tongue out at me again, and I’ll cut it out of your head.
Oh my God. It wasn’t an empty threat.
We stare at each other. Me looking for any hint of the man I met three years ago, him looking for an answer.
The clock in the hall scratches out each tense second. Somewhere upstairs, ABBA has moved onto “Dancing Queen.”It’s my favorite song, and now it sounds like some sort of sick joke.
Irritation flashes in his gaze, then without breaking eye contact, he leans closer to the candle.
Then he blows.
The room plunges into darkness, and somewhere within it, I find my will to live. I turn on my heel and run, losing a hair roller somewhere near the television set, and a slipper at the bottom of the staircase. The entryway stretches out in front of me, but the pink glow of the porch light coming through the window isn’t growing any closer, no matter how fast I move.
Time slows down, matching the leisurely thump of footsteps behind me. He’s not in a hurry.
He knows I can’t escape him.
As his shadow stretches up the doorframe, I consider turning around and begging for my life. Deep down, I always knew I’d die a horrible death. Something drawn-out and violent because it’d only be right. The good deeds came too late, and bubblegum pink and a chirpy disposition can’t hide the rotting within me. I should have known karma always keeps score, and it always comes back for those who deserve its wrath.
My fingers grapple with the door handle. When I wrench it open, the ice-cold wind brings the taste of freedom through the crack, but a gloved hand reaches over my head and shuts it again with a softclick.
No.
Another hand clamps over my mouth.
Please, God, no.
I gasp into warm leather. Though I know from the sheer size of him that fighting will be fruitless, I flail my limbs anyway, trying to wriggle and wrestle out of his grasp. My elbow connects with hard muscle; the heel of my foot strikes a shin.
His strength is sickening.
So are my thoughts.
Despite staring death in the face, all I can focus on is what’s happening behind me. The heat of his torso seeping through the thin fabric of my gown, the cold, hard metal of his belt digging into my lower back. My heart pounds and my chest heaves, and for a brief, ironic moment, I feel alive.
It’s impossible to think sensibly when this close to dying, but I always knew it’d be impossible for me to think rationally this close to a man too. Even the one who will kill me.
His hand slides off the door, and a heavy arm wraps around my waist, crushing me against him. Electricity crackles along the length of his bulging forearm, humming inside of me in places it shouldn’t even touch. When his other hand inches south of my mouth, the current surges and sparks.
He grips my jaw and squeezes.
My mouth pops open on command, filling the entryway with my damp, ragged breaths.
