Page 43 of Pretty Pink Poison
“You’ve always known that part of me.” He scoffed as if it was nonsense for me to even bring up. “You fucking love it. I see how your cheeks get pink and how you lick your lips when I’m violent, pretty pink poison.”
“You’re wrong,” I whispered but I felt the blush spreading. I stomped my foot, trying to drive my point home, “I don’t know the side of you that sends gross chicken and pasta up to my room instead of coming here yourself, Bane.”
“Gross? Really?” He acted like I was being spoiled.
I didn’t care if I was. I leaned forward and screamed like the spoiled woman I was, “It is gross when I wanted a damn burger with a bun that’s gluten free!”
“Gluten free? What the fuck for?” he murmured and when I glanced down at where I knew my rash was, he said, “Take your robe off.”
“No,” I told him.
He lunged at me fast, like he’d had enough.
But I was faster. He was drunk anyway. And I was charged from the questions, from him in my room, from the mess of emotions I was feeling. My body moved before my conscience had time to reconsider. I lunged for both the knife and the syringe.
The blade slashed his arm and then was at his neck, biting into his skin, and the syringe was jabbed into his bicep within a second.
He froze, grunted, and then frowned down at me, more offended than pained. “Pink…” He sighed as if I was a nuisance, and then he literally relaxed into the blade I held at his neck, causing me to push it further into him and nick his skin. “There’sthe venom in that attitude of yours I dream about. Go ahead and take my life, Pink. If someone’s going to put me out of my misery it might as well be you.”
“What?” I asked, my breath coming fast, the adrenaline making my hands shake.
“Because you’re the devil to my hell, and I still can’t seem to avoid the sin.”
“You can’t have me now after you turned me away and didn’t want me at dinner,” I told him.
“Is that what you think I’m trying to do?” he asked, tilting his head more slowly. “What’s in the syringe?”
“Lots of sedatives.” I cleared my throat. “That I mixed up myself.”
“Youdruggedme.” He tilted his head.
“Well… I was stopping you.” It sounded plausible in my head. Out loud, it sounded almost silly. He was a whole head taller than me, and his hands were at his sides like he wasn’t even trying to stop me.
“From what? Figuring out what you’re hiding?” He flicked a glance down at his hands that were undoing the robe knot now.And I wasn’t stopping him. Some part of me knew he’d find out anyway.
I bit my lip as his eyes landed on the redness of my skin, as his hardened, callous hand touched it so gently.
“Bianca,” he murmured.
“Gluten intolerance.” I shrugged.
“Fuck me.” He shook his head and met my gaze with searing anger now. “I didn’t test for that. I missed the most important thing.” He pushed the knife further into this skin. “Slit my throat.”
“No. What?” I jerked the knife away, and he immediately grabbed my wrist to pull the weapon from my hand.
“Careful with that.” His movements were slower but still measured as he set it down like he didn’t want me to hurt myself after I’d just slashed at his arm.
I scoffed and placed my hands on both of his shoulders as I searched his face and then looked at his bicep. “We need to get this bandaged, and you need to sit down.” I tried to keep my tone light.
A rumble escaped from his chest like he was already lightheaded, but he chuckled as he sat on the bed. “We need to get your phone plugged back in,” he drawled, staring with absurd calm at the blood sliding down his forearm, “but considering I’m bleeding out and about to be high as a motherfucking kite, maybe we should call a medic.”
“Shit.” This suddenly felt like a master plan gone completely wrong.
I ran to grab a few towels from the bathroom and then sat down beside him to lift his arm and wrap one around the large muscle.
“So”—he dragged the word out—“what exactly did you give me?”
I winced at the question. “In my defense, I thought you were going to have your way with me.”
