Page 39 of Roped

My heart is racing for another reason altogether now, and I swallow. “I don’t know wh-what you’re talking about.”

“Why?”

“Wh-why what?”

“Why the fuck do you act like you want their attention when you don’t?” he asks in his biting tone again. “Why do you put yourself through that? Put up with their disgustin’ eyes and dirty hands. Why do you let ’em breathe your air when you don’t wanna be anywhere close to them? Why the fuck do you do that to yourself?”

He noticed.

I know he’s been watching me for so long, but this is beyond that. This is beyond what I would’ve thought a man hell-bent on revenge and hatred would notice. He noticed the truth. He noticed, as if the connection I thought we had, through dark shadows and bedroom windows, was real.

In any case, I can’t tell him that. That he’s pegged me exactly right or why I do these things. I can’t tell anyone that.

I take a deep breath and, pressing the knife at his neck, I say, “It’s none of your business why. And don’t forget who’s holding the knife. I’d step back if I were you.”

He doesn’t. Not right away. For the first few moments, he studies me carefully, and I try not to squirm under his scrutiny. I try not to blush or look away, appear in any way or form that I’m hiding something. I’m about to ask him again to step back or I will really stab him with the knife when he moves. With his hands still on the tree, he inches away from me. Then, “You’ve got three seconds.”

“What?”

“Stab me,” he says, “and make me pay for everythin’ I did. Or lose your fuckin’ chance.”

“Wait, what? I—”

“One.”

My eyes widen. “Oh my God, you’re doing the thing again.”

“Two.”

“I can’t believe you’re counting. For this. For your own—”

“Three.”

My heart thuds. “Radisson—”

He licks his lips. “Time’s up.”

Before I can say anything, he grabs my hand, wrapping his fingers around my wrist, and yanks it away from his neck. Just like that, without even blinking. But instead of taking the weapon away from me like I’d expected, he guides my hand down to his stomach, knife and all. To the spot he pointed out earlier. The one between the ribs, where there’s no bone to stop me from cutting through the muscle. Then, looking me in the eyes and still keeping a hold on my wrist, he plunges the blade in.

Stabbing himself.

CHAPTER TEN

HE GRUNTS AND lets go of my hand.

My shocked gaze skitters down. The blood is quickly blooming on his white shirt and I gasp, letting go of the handle. “Oh my God, you just…”

Grunting again, he hunches over, his hand smacking the tree with a crack, his features tight and his brows furrowed. He clenches his eyes shut as he bites out, “Fuck.”

“What do I do? What do I do?” I ask him, panicked.

As if in response, he takes his hand off the tree again and goes for the knife that’s sticking out of his torso. He wraps his slightly shaking fingers around the handle, engulfing it completely, before yanking it out the same way he shoved it in. This time, his grunt is louder and his features are tighter than before, and my heart is about to beat out of my chest. He drops the knife on the ground and goes back to holding the tree for support.

His breaths are loud and labored. His chest flares wide with each one he takes in and his back shudders with every exhale. Without knowing what else to do, I reach out and press my hand to his wound. And holy shit, it’s bad. It’s so very, very bad. Just like his shirt, my fingers are soaked with his blood. It’s hot and thick and dripping. Suddenly, the air seems saturated with its scent, sharp and metallic.

“Y-you’re bleeding too much. You’re—”

His green eyes are clouded with pain as he focuses on me. “Good.”