Plaything Of The Enemy

I stared at him. "I'd rather die." "You won't. Because you want answers. And I'm the only man who can give them to you." I laughed in a mocking way. "You're delusional." He leaned down, his mouth next to my ear. "No, Luca. I'm patient." "I hate you." "I know," he whispered. "That's what makes it so interesting." Then he slid off me with lethal grace and headed for the door. But just before he disappeared, he looked back, eyes burning through the dark. "Let it sink in, Luca. Your rage. Your grief. Your guilt. Sit with it. Sleep in it. Feel it. You'll need it all." He opened the door. "I'll be back when you're ready to make a deal." The door shut with a soft click. And I was alone. I stared at the door long after it closed. Not because I feared what would happen next. But because I feared what I might become if I stayed. Morning arrived slowly, bleeding gray light through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a knife dragging through gauze. I hadn't slept all night. How could I? I was chained to the bed of the man I hated the most in this world. The door opened at sometime past dawn. My heart jumped a bit. But it wasn't Damian. It was a woman in her early forties, dressed in gray, her eyes were lowered like she'd been taught never to raise them. She didn't speak. She just set a silver tray down on the table beside the bed: toast, eggs, coffee, a cloth napkin folded like origami. I glared at it. "I didn't ask for food," I muttered. She didn't respond. "Do you work for him?" I asked. Still nothing from her. "Tell me, what's the going rate for pretending he's not a fucking monster?" That got me a flicker. Not of anger but of fear. Her eyes darted to the corner where the collar sat. She whispered, so low I barely heard it. "Don't make him angry no matter what." Then she turned and left. My wrists throbbed against the cuffs. I'd spent half the night testing them, and all I'd gotten was raw skin and bruised pride. So when the lock clicked again and his footsteps echoed through the suite, I just stayed motionless. Damian strolled in like he owned the world. His hair was damp from the shower. A black shirt half-buttoned. No tie. Just casual menace and the scent of spice and leather trailing behind him like smoke. I hated how effortlessly casual he was. "You look like shit," he said, setting his watch on the nightstand. "Maybe because I spent the night cuffed to your bed." He raised a brow. "You say that like it was that inconvenient." I laughed bitterly. "You're just an asshole, Moretti." He stepped closer. I tensed. Then, he unlocked the cuffs one at a time, slow and silent. My wrists dropped to the bed, heavy and aching. "Stretch and hydrate. You'll need your strength." "For what? More psychological torture?" He gave me that same amused smile, like I was a stray mutt snarling at its master. "I don't need to torture you, Luca. You're already tearing yourself apart." I pushed myself up, muscles screaming in protest. "What do you want from me?" "I already told you," he said. "Since you came to me on your own accord, you belong to me now." "I'm not a thing and I came to put an end to your life." He crouched beside the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze burned into mine. "No. But you're not a free man either. Let's get that straight." I wanted to hit him. I wanted to scream. But more than anything, I wanted to understand. Why wasn't I dead? Why hadn't he killed me like he did Matteo? The question hung in my mind, heavy and poisonous. I stared at him from the bed, my wrists now uncuffed, my jaw aching from clenching it too hard.. "Why are you keeping me here?" I demanded, my voice rough with rage and confusion. "What's the endgame, Damian? If you want to kill me, why not just do that already?." He just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, like a predator choosing when to strike. "No endgame," he said finally, his voice low. "I'm keeping you here because I want to know if you could be used." I laughed, bitter and sharp. "Used? I'm not going to do any dirty work for you." At that, he came toward me, slowly and calmly, his eyes unreadable. When he stopped at the foot of the bed, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out. A glint of silver. He tossed it onto the mattress. It was a knife. I stared at it. "What is this for?" I asked, throat tightening. "Go on," he said. "Take it." My eyes shot to his cold face. "Slit my throat, if that's what you really want. You've had time to think it over." I didn't move. "What's the catch?" I asked quietly. "No catch," he said. "I want to know what you'll choose when the choice is yours." My fingers twitched. Then curled. I picked up the knife. My body moved before my mind caught up. I rose from the bed, still barefoot, my fingers tightened around the handle as I stepped toward him. He didn't flinch. "Do you really think I wouldn't do it?" I said. He shook his head. "We're about to find out." I raised the blade. I saw his exposed throat. I hesitated a little. Is he really telling the truth? No, I won't be swayed by his lies. I shook off the thoughts in my head and lunged at him. He moved faster. In an instant, I was on the bed again face-down, arm twisted behind my back, knife clattering to the floor. The pressure of his body over mine was a threat dressed as restraint. My heart thundered.