Page 19 of Bleed the Shadows
MAEVE
He draggedthe knife down my cheek, hard enough that I felt the tension of the blade against my skin but not hard enough to actually hurt.
Yet.
Hold still, M. Hold very, very still.
June’s voice was a comfort. I wasn’t alone. Had she heard my voice at the end? Had I made her feel less alone?
“You know what I think?” the Observer asked. It was hard not to shrink away from him. The Scream mask’s drooping eyes and mouth hole were terrifying up close, like a face melting right in front of me. “I think you like this. You’d never say it out loud because the world would judge you, tell you how fucked up you are, how anti-feminist.”
He practically spit the last word, his disgust obvious.
“I chose to be here.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You even consented, remember?”
I consent to be hunted.
I consent to be stripped.
I consent to be marked.
I consent to be owned.
He was right. I’d consented. I’d been a fool to think I wasn’t going to end up chained to the wall, naked and vulnerable like the other girls. Or maybe deep down I’d just assumed — hoped — it would be at the hands of the Butchers.
The Observer’s face was close to mine now. Close enough to bite if he hadn’t been wearing the mask.
“Youlikebeing hunted.” The point of his knife dug into my neck as he got more animated, and I felt a hot trickle of blood leak down my throat.
Terror was a paralyzing agent, and I held as still as I could.
“It would be so much easier if you little cunts would just admit it. If you’d just admit that you want to be controlled, that you want to be dominated.”
Not like this. Not by you.
I wanted to scream it in his face but I didn’t dare move.
My neck burned and I realized he was dragging the tip of his knife down my throat, drawing blood along the way.
Death was a whisper away, my body coiled tight with the primal urge to fight and scream.
Don’t you dare, M. Don’t you dare.
“Everything was easier when everyone just acknowledged the way things are, before we fucked everything up by telling each other what we all wanted to hear.” The Observer’s eyes had a feverish shine, his words more than a little manic.
And then, in the distance, I heard footsteps.
Not walking.
Running.
The sicko holding a knife to my throat didn’t seem to hear it, but Meathead looked over his shoulder and shifted on his feet.
“Someone’s coming, boss.”
The Observer shook his head, like he was trying to shake off a dream. “What?”
