“I don’t want any gifts from you. I hate you.”
I pushed his hand away, and the necklace swung like a pendulum. Before I could say anything else, he’d taken my hand and twisted it down and behind my back. I could feel the chain cutting into my skin between our hands, even through the bandages that covered my cuts. In my bra, the razor turned and pushed against the fabric. I hoped that it wouldn’t cut through to my skin.
He kissed me hard, and as he kissed me he pressed into me. I could feel his erection growing through the fabric of his pants, pressing against my thigh. His obvious attraction sent a shudder of uncalled desire through my body. His bare chest was hard, his muscles rippling under the pressure between our bodies.
Hot, it was so hot. I struggled to breathe and he tilted his head, letting my lips go and pinning me back so that his forehead was against mine and our faces were only inches apart.
“You’re attracted to me,” he said.
“I still hate you.”
“Why do you hate me?” he asked. His skin was smooth against mine, and his breath was fresh, like spearmint. I hated to even think about how bad my breath smelled, but he nuzzled against me as though it was no problem at all. I struggled to get away from him but he held me fast.
“You’re a monster,” I said.
He paused before speaking.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? You kill people!”
“Kitten, these men are not good men that I kill. They are wifebeaters. They are child abusers. They pay off judges and slip through the cracks. They’re the real monsters. Sometimes I go to their funerals and watch their family weep… with relief.”
“How can you tell?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if I believed him. Isn’t that what any serial killer would say? Don’t they always blame their victims? But maybe if he thought what he was saying was true... maybe he wouldn’t kill me.
“I can tell any emotion,” he said. He brought his free hand up to my cheek and caressed my jawline with his thumb. “That’s how I know what you truly feel about me.”
“You disgust me,” I whispered.
“In part, yes. But I also attract you, even now. My touch thrills you. You want me to take you, to fuck you.”
“No.”
He stepped back. Amusement danced in his eyes again.
“No, not yet. Not right now. But you will. And when you want it, I’ll be here waiting. Until then, take my present.” He held out the necklace again, and again I heard a softening in his voice.
“Will you take off this handcuff?” I asked.
His eyes flickered over, and I believe it was the first time he realized then that I was still locked to the pipe. He stepped forward and took off the cuff without another word.
Free. I had both hands. I rubbed my sore wrist, my upper arm feeling for the spot where the razor was. Now, maybe. If I had the chance—
“Take it,” he said, holding out the chain.
I reached out and took the necklace, my fingertips brushing against his. Despite myself, I felt a thrill when he touched me. Damn him! Damn myself! I coughed and turned my attention to the charm, hoping that he wouldn’t see the evidence of my attraction in my face.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“It was my mother’s.”
“Where does she live?”
“Nowhere. She’s dead. I was looking through her things.”
I didn’t dare ask the question that was floating through my mind: Did you kill her? Then I remembered the noise I’d heard from upstairs.
“Was that why I heard you screaming before?”
His eyes flashed down to mine, and there was danger in them. A frightened anger. I had stepped into something I didn’t understand, and there was more here than I wanted to know.
“I wasn’t screaming.” His voice was hoarse, too quiet. It sounded like the rasp of a rattler’s tail before it lashed out to strike.
“Fine,” I said quickly.
“Do you want to wear it?” he asked.
I nodded. I didn’t want to make him angrier than he already was. I could sense that he was on the edge of lashing out, and I sure as hell didn’t want him to lash out at me.
He took the necklace back, and again I felt the brief thrill of his touch on my hand. He unclasped the chain and motioned for me to turn around.
Facing the back wall, my hand moved up under the shirt I was wearing. My fingers touched the outline of the razor. I could pull it out now. I could whip around, slice through the air, slice through his throat. If I aimed right, I could cut his jugular and escape, run, run—
His fingers slid under my hair, brushing it to one side. At his touch, I shivered. The sight of his teary eyes, the tremble of his voice—I couldn’t do it. Not now. Something held me back.