Page 59 of Wicked Vile King
"Stop it, Saint," she hisses, pushing against me, fighting me. My fingers tighten in her hair, holding her there and preventing her from looking away. She needs to watch.
"The thing is, pet," I hiss back at her, gripping her hair even tighter, digging my nails into her scalp just for a second. "I'm not the worst nightmare in this place. I can protect you. I can make you feel safe and nice and all those things you not-so-secretly crave, or you can learn what actually goes bump in the dark."
A whimper, more a breath than anything else, escapes her lips this time before she says again, "Stop it, Saint."
Her words are somewhere between a hiss and a plea.
"What? You don't like that idea?" I cluck my tongue. "Well, okay then. Maybe instead, I'll make it look like you slit those pretty wrists again, and then you get to be the Butcher's pet. Can you survive weeks alone with your thoughts when all your demons come to visit, or will you shatter like glass on impact?"
She shakes against me, and if I had to guess, she definitely wants to throw up or scream.
"Stop it," she demands again.
"Or," I murmur, leaving her hair to grab her wrist as Zane jerks himself off even harder, "maybe you realize there's no one to protect you or keep you safe, and you do it yourself." I jerk her sleeve up her arm to massage the pink, bumpy scar. "At least you know you gotta go deeper this time, right?"
"Stop it," she says, the words breaking apart.
I get bored watching the assholes trying to get off and lead her by the nape of the neck to the stairs again. She can barely see. Maybe it's her tears or the dim light or who knows what, but it's easy to tell in the way one of her hands skims the wall, while her other grasps my shirt. I know where we are going though. I guess I'm just more accustomed to the differing shades of shadows.
By the way she's clinging to me, she's still afraid of the dark, and I force her along, continuing down the stairs and into the darkness until we arrive at a hallway that ends at a pair of old metal swinging doors that open with a screech. I push one open, and the lights automatically flicker on, as they always do, but they are dull and need to be replaced. There are gurneys and chopping blocks, stainless steel trays and tools, and a wall lined with square human-sized refrigerators.
"Where are we?" she asks as I release her, her beautiful honey-colored eyes wide. I know she knows this one. She's too smart not to, but if she wants me to confirm it, fine. I'll give credence to her worst nightmares.
"This is where they used to keep the bodies," I explain, walking past the metal tables still topped with empty black body bags. "Sometimes they still do when one of us keels over."
She swallows hard, and her gaze darts from the morgue's fridge on one side of the room, taking up an entire wall, to the autopsy tables where we now stand. She shivers, and I don't think it's from the cold.
"Are there any bodies in here?" she asks slowly.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. I raise an eyebrow. "Want to find out?"
She eyes the wall of freezer doors and shakes her head quickly. I come up behind her and put my hand on her shoulder. She nearly bolts out of her skin.
"Let go of me, psycho," she says, but it's soft,afraid.
"Mmm," I groan, her words hitting me like a lightning bolt straight to the dick, "I love it when you say shit you don't mean."
"I mean every word," she lies. "You're a psychopath."
"As you keep reminding me." I reach for her hair, twining it around my fingers again. "Would you like to know what kind?"
"What?"
"There are four types: narcissistic, borderline, sadistic, or antisocial. Take a lucky guess."
She tips her chin at me and musters whatever courage she has left to remark, "I'm guessing whichever one makes you the biggest asshole."
I laugh. "Strong words coming from the person literally shaking in my presence." I cinch her hair tighter, drawing her closer. "Let me clarify it for you, pretty girl, you will learn to be a good pet, or I will let the beasts upstairs fuck every pretty hole you have, and then when you finally lose whatever shred of sanity you have left, I'll watch as they fucking drive you to cut deeper this time and you'll end up here, on one of these tables or worse, with the butchering doc. Do you want that?"
Fresh tears pool in her eyes, and she shakes her head.
"Good," I remark, finally releasing my hold on her hair. "Well, I can't let you get away with putting me in containment for two goddamn weeks and then running away in the library, so . . ." I gesture to an open body bag, "get in."
"What?!" she nearly chokes on the words.
"Get. In," I repeat. "Or I'll make you, and trust me, you won't like it."
She's shaking and shivering as she moves for the body bag, fully clothed.
