Page 18 of Ripple Effect: Ep. 1

While the exact color of his eyes is hard to discern in the dimness, one appears to be lighter than the other, but it’s not the color that’s important. There’s not a single hint of remorse in them for what he’s done. No empathy. No mercy.

The way he intends to kill me, no doubt.

I don’t say a word. If he thinks I know anything about him, he’ll never let me out of here. I’m likely dead anyway, but no sense in flipping his impulse switch.

Warmth floods my veins, and I’m horrified at the first twinge of heat between my thighs. It’s a trained response. Watching the man for months has my body warring with arousal when it should be seeking shelter in the darkness of passing out.

The game changed, after all. The fairy tale morphed into something ugly and terrifying, yet all of my senses are out of whack.

“I’d have spared you. Denied you and let you walk. But now you’ve seen my face. You’ve seen what I’ve done.”

“I swear I won’t—” The raising of his hand cuts off my plea.

“Your arguments are useless. I won’t burn you until after. You have my word. So that leaves you with one choice: blade or bullet?”

I won’t give him the satisfaction of crying, even if all I can think about in that moment is my dog, the only thing in the world I have left, who’ll be on her own now. Instead, I swallow back the tears and frown. “Blade.” It’s my hot-tempered, childish anger that answers, and guessing that a bullet would be a quicker, I almost change my mind.

“Interesting.” A pitch of intrigue lightens his voice, and he tips his head. “Where would you have me cut you?”

With a straight face, I glance at his scar and back. “Throat.” I’ve never killed anyone but perhaps that’s the quickest, least painful death. In the movies, the victims choke for a few seconds and it’s over. Dead. Although his scar is making me second-guess that, but I suppose that boils down to skill, and this guy certainly seems to have it in spades.

I can’t summon a single tear, as much as I want to, and a strange calm bathes my muscles, leaving only a slight wake of trembles. As if I’m accepting this. Accepting death.

Clearly, it’s the Oxy shielding me from the fear. I only wish that I’d popped two of them, instead of the one that’s keeping me tethered to this reality behind a thin, fragile veil of illusion.

He seems to chew on his lip while tugging a blade from his hip. Long and serrated along the edge, I imagine it will hurt when he pushes it across my neck. Only for a minute, I assure myself. My body will go into shock as the blood drains out.

Faster, from my neck.

There’s no sense in fighting him. I’ve no chance of winning with my arms bound, dangling from a rafter like cattle for slaughter.

He approaches slowly and a strong scent of sandalwood hits the back of my throat, momentarily overpowering my fears, until his rough palm grips my arm and I flinch. Trailing a finger down to my shoulder, he curls his hand around my neck, gripping my nape. I hate that his touch is everything I’d fantasized—strong and penetrating, but gentle. How foolish was I to dream of those hands pinning me with ecstasy, only to wake to them comforting me before the kill? A whimper escapes me and his face blurs behind a watery shield.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

I’m waiting for the flashback of my life. The part when I see all the good things slip behind my eyelids, telling the story of how well I’ve lived. Instead there’s nothing—only darkness with two ominous eyes staring down at me.

He lifts me closer to him and his warm breath heats my cheek. Seducing me for the slaughter. “Ready?”

“Quit toying with me.” I grit my teeth, keeping my gaze locked on the steel rafters above me, and the blackness beyond. “Kill me, if that’s what you plan to do.”

“Is it easier for you? Will I be doing you a favor? Giving an end to your miserable fucking life?”

“You’d be just like everyone else—taking what you want and leaving me to rot with the insects.” My jaw hardens and the blur sharpens to clarity as a tear slips down my temple. “Go on and take your piece.”

He lowers my head just enough that I can see his face again, and those intense eyes that study me for far longer than I’d have expected. One blue and one hazel, I can see now, framed by thick black lashes, riveted on my mouth.

Perhaps he decided to cut out my tongue first.

Instead, he lifts my dangling arm and strokes the Monarch tattoo along my wrist.

“And just how does the little butterfly escape the spider’s web?” His voice tickles my spine, and in the next breath, the floor collides with my back, knocking the air out of my lungs. My fingers bend into an unnatural contortion behind my back, but I don’t even care as I dig my feet into the gravel to slide away from him. He slices through the ropes, setting my feet loose, my arms free.

Wait. Free?

No, this is the chase. He wants me to run so he can hunt me down. I’ve seen a million horror movies to know psychos get their jollies by pursuing the helpless women. The ones too stupid to live, who jump into cars with assholes that remind them of their chemistry teachers, only to find themselves in a steaming vat of deep shit.

I scramble to kick back away from him, my Converse sliding against the wet blood on the pavement.