Page 28 of Wicked Vile King
Soaking that space between her legs where her panties meet her pussy.
I continue running my finger up and down the scar, slowly, in my approximation oflovingly.
I repeat my question. "Do what, pet?"
"Act . . ." she manages, clearing her throat, "act so charming and then go completely unhinged."
I smile at her, and this smile isn't the pretty one I give to the girls when I want something or the apologetic one I give to the doctors when I've fucked up. When I smile, sheshivers,and the pulse point at the base of her neck beats like a runaway rabbit beneath her skin.
"Perks of antisocial personality disorder," I say, the words flat.
She yanks her arm away from me. "You're a psychopath."
"And you suck at un-aliving yourself. Should we continue listing facts about each other?"
She gawks at me like I've grown a third eye, and annoyance flits through me. I've seen it now, in person, and it looked even more glorious than the photographs. It'smine.I yank her arm back toward me, across my desk this time, and start to play with the pretty scar again.
She tries to pull free, but I grip harder. She yanks again, and this time, when I give her a warning squeeze, she whimpers. She looks around for help, but I barely notice it. I don't care if she screams for help in this place.
Doesn't she get it? Short of me taking a protractor to her wrists and opening them up again, no one cares.
We were sent here torot.
The teacher at the front of the room turns on a video, like a video is going to teach us literature, the fucking moron.
"Why'd you do it?" I ask her.
"Fuck you," she hisses back.
"Mmm," her anger falls like hot ash in the air between us, tickling my skin, "only if you beg."
I press harder into her flesh, and she winces. I don't care. I want to see the matching one on her opposite wrist.
Is it as straight or crooked as the photographs suggested? Is it as deep, or did she bleed out too quickly to do a proper job?
"Why?" I ask her again, rubbing the gnarled scar.
Up and down, up and down, faster and faster.
"I didn't mean to," she murmurs, trying to pull away from me, but I dig my thumb deep, hitting bone, and she bites her bottom lip to stifle her yelp.
"Liar."
Faster and harder, faster and harder.
"I don't belong here," she says with a wince.
"Stop deflecting," I snap. "Why?"
The question dies in the air.
"Straight-A student," I continue. "Captain of the cheerleading team. But you sliced your wrists down the highway like you meant it, pretty girl.Why?"
"How do you know all that?" she says, finally jerking out of my grip so hard she nearly topples out of the opposite side of her chair.
"It's not in your file," I say. "Just some boring note about your mother. Is that why? Did she hurt you, pet?"
"You have no idea what you're talking about."
