His (7 page)

When I woke up again, I was lying on a hard surface. I tried to lift my head, but there was something holding me back. I twisted my head and glanced down. There was a strap holding down my wrist. And my neck. Straps against my bare skin.

I was on the kitchen table. Wearing only a bra and panties. He’d taken off the rest of my clothes.

“Awake?”

I screamed. The man stood up over me, his face looking upside down at mine. I was trapped. Oh Jesus, I was tied down. I screamed again, whimpering sobs of a scream that came out in spasms.

He waited until I was done screaming, and then he bent down lower. The strap around my neck tightened, then went slack. I lifted my head.

He cupped his hand around the back of my neck, holding my head up. His hand was strong around my neck, and the tips of his fingers grazed my throat.

“Your arm was cut badly,” he said. “It needed sutures.”

I looked down to see my arm bandaged up. Red blossoms of blood flowered at the top of the bandage. I tilted my head back, settling back into his palm.

“You stuck me with the syringe again.”

“I didn’t think you’d let me stitch you up if you were conscious. You seemed much too eager to bleed to death while escaping.”

“How did you know how to do the stitches?” I asked. My breaths were quick and shallow. I looked into his eyes. I wanted to see if he would torture me, kill me. I wanted to ask him questions forever to keep him from remembering that I would be better off dead and cut up and burned in the fireplace.

“I used to be a medical student,” he said. “I was going to be a doctor.”

Questions. More questions. Anything to keep him talking, to keep him from getting angry.

“Why’d you stop?”

He smiled and his eyes went blank, as though focusing on something in the far off distance.

“I tried, I really did. I loved working with the human body. They’re such remarkable things, bodies. So perfectly made to survive. I would have loved the academic work, certainly. But that whole thing about first do no harm? Doesn’t quite work with my personality.”

“What
is
your personality?”

His eyes refocused on mine, and I saw them narrow.

“You know my personality, kitten,” he said. “I have a taste for killing.”

“If that’s all you are, then why’d you save me?”

“You have a lot of questions, little kitten,” he said. His hand began to knead my neck. My lips parted as his fingers dug deep, massaging the tense muscles. “So many questions.”

I gasped as he brought his other hand up to my shoulder and began to rub. The motions were automatic, clinical. But as he worked his fingers into my skin, I could feel my body relaxing. He knelt down at the table behind me so that I couldn’t see his face. All I could sense were his hands on my neck, his strong, possessive grasp so close to my throat that I could hardly breathe.

“I have some questions for you, kitten,” he whispered. His breath was hot on my ear, and I trembled at the low growl of his words. One of his hands left the back of my neck and moved around to the front. His fingers were long and taut, and they slid down my side, rubbing my skin in slow circles.

I couldn’t help it. The touch of a man’s hands all over me made me sigh, and at that sigh he nuzzled the top of my head. A terrifying mixture of desire and disgust swept through me. Then his lips touched my hairline just above my ear, and he spoke again.

“First I would ask you why you kissed me,” he said. His hand slid down under my bra, and I drew a sharp breath as he cupped my breast. “Did you think I was handsome? Your prince charming, come to take you away on horseback?”

I didn’t answer right away. What would I say? But his hand never stopped massaging the back of my neck, even when his other hand squeezed my breast softly. I whimpered as his fingers came up and took hold of my quickly stiffening nipple. Then he pinched me hard, twisting, and I cried out, arching my back against the table.

“Tell me, kitten,” he said. He released my nipple, his fingertips stroking it gently. Then he pinched hard again, so hard that I saw white flashes behind my eyelids.

“Yes!” I said, breathless. “Yes, I did! It was a bet! I’m sorry!”

“A bet?” He came to the side of the table, my nipple twisted in his fingers. His eyes were flat, dull green stones that burned all the more with their indifference.

Then he reached down between my legs. I froze. His fingertips grazed the fabric of my panties and my mouth went dry. He was touching me there, right there, and I could barely feel the sensation. A slight stroke up, then down. Up. Then down. His hand moved as though he was idly feeling the top of a tablecloth and he never looked down, not once.

The small voice hiding away inside of me began to crackle and whisper.
This is what you want
, the voice said.

No. Not what I had in mind when I thought about a guy tying me down. Not this.

Then why are you aroused?

I’m not. Not...

This is what you need.

I breathed shallowly, watching his every move. His other hand still held my nipple tight, the ache there beginning to throb through my stomach. He did not watch my body: his eyes were fixed on mine.

“Tell me about this bet.”

“Please—”

“Tell me.” His thumb rubbed my nipple, rolling it hard. I moaned. He eased off and his other hand stroked me through the fabric, so gently that my body arched to meet him before I pulled myself away. My core clutched itself with repulsive need, and I felt myself grow wet. I threw my head to one side, closing my eyes. No. I didn’t want him. Didn’t need him.

Maybe if I told him everything he would leave me alone. Maybe he would see how harmless I was, let me go.

The small voice said:
maybe he’ll give you what you want.

I gulped air and spoke.

“It was stupid. My friend said I should kiss the first attractive guy I saw. And—

“And you saw me.”

“Yes.”

“And you thought I was attractive?” He pushed harder.

“Yes,” I moaned.

“What was it that attracted you?” His fingers split apart, stroking both sides of me through my panties, but not the middle. Not where I ached. The fabric was soaked through and I ached, god, I ached so badly.

“I don’t—I don’t—”

“Tell me. What was it about me?”

“You looked…” My heart was pounding. I needed release. It was horrific to be so aroused with nothing to do about it. My arms were pinned back and I twisted under the straps, trying to get out.

“Yes?”

I breathed in deeply. I had to answer. My mind cast back to that day, a week ago.

“You looked… lonely. Like you needed someone to make things better.”

He paused, and the ache that swept through me at the pause took away my breath.
Touch me
, I wanted to cry out.
Don’t stop
. I bit my lip hard.

“Kitten,” he said. “You might understand me, a little bit. But I didn’t need to kiss someone to make things better. I kill people to make things better. Bad people.”

He smiled and ice ran through my veins.

“And now I’m not lonely either. I have
you.
”

With those words, he rested my head back down onto the table and left me in the kitchen, still aching for release that he would not give me.

     Gav    

She was a complication, indeed. My head swam with it even though I hadn’t had a single sip of brandy that day. She kaleidoscoped my world.
And I had just finished spring cleaning!

I left as soon as I found myself beginning to respond to her body. Attraction is a dangerous thing. I couldn’t risk falling for anyone, not even one with a body as lush as hers. It disappointed me that she tried to escape. She cut her body up so badly.

Not as badly as before, I thought, thinking about the small white seams along her wrists.

But no. I needed to train her to behave. Not to run away. To stay inside properly. She could be my pet, the little kitten. And once she learned to behave, then…
maybe
. Maybe I could chance something.

Not yet, though. I run the risk of overlooking something, like the window. There will be many ways to escape, and she would be looking for all of them. And it would be a terrible thing to have to kill her.

Ah, my kitten. Your curiosity infected me.

I’m human, certainly. I can breed with other humans, and my offspring would be human. I’m just not a
person
.

There’s no emotion behind anything that I do. This curiosity was a new thing.

In my line of work, I’ve seen many bodies. Fat, thin, muscled, scrawny. Many of them have scars. A seam along their stomach from a gastric bypass surgery. White marks on the knees from childhood bicycle accidents. I thought that nothing about a body could make me feel anything at all. It’s just flesh, just cells. But the scars on her wrists would not go away. When I closed my eyes, I saw them.

That night I stayed up staring at the ceiling. My finger drew a line down my wrist, tracing the path she must have carved with a knife. I shuddered.

Who could do such a horrible thing?

CHAPTER SEVEN

     Kat    

An hour passed, maybe two, before he came back to the kitchen. I’d calmed down a bit. There was no way he would have stitched up a cut before murdering me, right? At least, that made sense in my mind. If I could keep him placated, I could figure out a way to get out, even if it took a while. Even if he did…
other
things to me. I shuddered at the twist of unwelcome desire that ran through me at the thought.

When he walked in with his knife gleaming, though, I couldn’t help but cringe.

“Easy, kitten,” he said. He opened the fridge and pulled out a plate of something, but I couldn’t see what it was. Oh, lord, I hoped it wasn’t human parts.

I swallowed and tried to relax. Questions. Get him comfortable.

“My name is Kat,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Your name is kitten, kitten. Why do you want to know my name?” His back was turned to me, silverware clanking against a plate.

“I want to know more about you.” I said, gulping.

He peered at me over his shoulder, his brows suspicious.

“A name means nothing. You can call me Gav.”

“Gav.” I cast around in my brain for more to keep him talking. “Is that short for Gavin?”

“Gavriel,” he said. “My parents were religious. At least, my mother was.”

He turned back around with the plate and I saw it clearly now. No human parts - a rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes and some green beans. He put the plate down next to my head. I could smell the meaty scent of the chicken and it reminded me of the smell of the man he’d burned in the fireplace. My stomach wrenched and I tried not to heave.

A loud clang brought my attention back to the table next to me. He’d set the knife down right next to my cheek.

“Wha—what’s that?”

“Dinner,” Gav said. He forked a mouthful of chicken into his mouth.

“I mean the knife.”

“It’s a knife, kitten. It’s nothing. Just a prop. If I’m going to be a serial killer, I have to have a knife.” He chuckled.

“You
are
a serial killer. What do you mean, just a prop?”

“Just a prop. Like Chekhov’s knife.” His jaw worked, chewing the next piece of meat, and I frowned.

“You mean Chekhov’s gun.”

“Oh, no,” Gav said. “I don’t believe in guns. Here.” He put a fork of chicken under my nose. “Have something to eat.”

My stomach growled. Even with the terrible reminder of the smell of meat, I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since… well, since lunch the day before. Reluctantly, I opened my mouth. His eyes tracked my lips and did not leave them even as I chewed the cold chicken. My appetite came back with a crash after the first bite.

“Why not?” I asked after swallowing.

“Why not what?”

“Why don’t you believe in guns?” I asked. He offered another fork of food and I took it.

“If you shoot someone from far enough away, you can’t even tell that they’re dying. You won’t even get to see them die. You don’t get to see what you’ve done. It’s sterile, bland. It’s not a kill if it’s not up close. You miss all the good parts.”

I nearly choked on the bite of food, but managed to force it down.

He continued to feed me, small bites of mashed potato and beans and chicken. Cold leftovers, but I had never tasted anything so delicious. Even as his words made me shiver, his actions told me that he wouldn’t kill me. No, he would do worse. But maybe I could escape.

He sighed, looking off as I finished the bite.

“Guns make death inhuman,” he said.

“Would you call yourself human?” I asked, a thin line of bitterness running into my voice.

“Of course I’m human. Human is a species. I’m not humane, that’s all. I’m not a
person
.” His eyes seemed to change colors as he talked, grayish shades of green and blue that swirled around on the surface but never admitted any deeper.

“Then what are you?”

He shrugged.

“A persona. A character on the page, comprising as many dimensions as the edge of a knife. I kill, that’s all. That’s what I am. A knife.”

“Nothing else?”

I wanted to see behind the mask he was wearing. I was sure there was more to him, something that I could take from him. Something I could use to guilt him, seduce him.
Something
.

“What do you want me to say, kitten?”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything. Or have you just always been a serial killer?”

“I’ve been many things. A doctor, a healer.”

I coughed on the bite of food, and he chuckled at my reaction.

“Yes, a healer. Now, though, I don’t just sew up wounds. I stop the wounds before they start.”

“You kill bad men.”

I tried to make it seem like I understood. I wasn’t sure if it was working. He sighed.

“I suppose you could say that. I make them suffer. I take away their sins.”