SWNOVELS Chapter 5
Is this a punishment? If it isn’t, it certainly feels like one.
Maybe I haven’t been kicked enough by life itself lately? I’m not surprised fate is out to get me, but did it have to leave me stuck with him? The crown prince of fucking cruelty. He makes a professional sport out of being mean. Well, he’s not mean just to me, but for some unknown reason he appears to enjoy tormenting me the most. Just once, I wish I had the balls to talk back, to put him in his place.
I kick the suitcase hard and then huff, kneel, and rub out the rubber scuff mark that’s left on the fabric.
Dammit. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hope he stubs his toe on a table and forever has a piece of food stuck in his teeth…
As I think of silly things like that, my anger recedes, and I let out a long exhale and inhale slowly through my nose.
Maybe if I keep telling myself I hate him then I’ll actually believe it. It’s unlikely but possible, someday. The reality is, it’s hard to hate the person who took you in at your darkest moment, even if he’s under some insane delusion that he owns you.
He doesn’t own me. No one owns me.
I know he doesn’t deserve my kindness, but it’s hard not to give him some when it’s all I have to offer. So even though I want to run his clothes through a shredder instead of picking them up and repacking them, I do what I’m asked. I stack the clothes again, carefully folding each piece and organizing them inside of the suitcase with origami precision.
But if he complains again I’m walking out and making him pack his own shit.
Well, I’ll seriously think about walking out and making him pack himself.
Once everything is organized, I stare at the bathroom door, which is shut mostly, minus a sliver of light cast across the floor. Does he want me to pack his toiletries too? I mean…how should I know which of his overpriced colognes or body soaps he wants packed?
No. Better to let him do that himself. It’s one less thing I can make a mistake on. Instead, I stare down at the suitcase and its contents. It looks good, great even, but I can hear his voice in my head, and I’d much rather be ignored by him than berated. With my anxiety heightened and the fear of making a mistake rattling in my ear, I drop to the floor and sit cross-legged in front of the suitcase.
Then I straighten the already straight lines of clothing, again and again. I become immersed in making sure everything is perfect, so much so that by the time I snap out of it I find myself wondering when he’s going to return, like his approval is life itself. The reality of that thought breaks me, and I remember how bitter and cruel he is.
Heat climbs up my neck, until my ears are burning and my nails cut into the palms of my hand as I clench them. Why am I sitting here, like a dutiful wife doing as she’s told?
I’m tempted to tip the case over and tell him to fuck himself. I’d regret it instantly; I know it, but this fucking dick thinks he can order me around like a dog, then bully me into doing what he wants. And stupidly, I do it. Yes, he’s my employer, technically, but damn him, he orders me around like I’m more of a pet than a paid worker.
I shove off the floor and re-enter the closet, staring at the long row of his perfectly pressed clothes, some still wrapped in their dry cleaning bags. Under the hanging suits and slacks, low shelves are lined with shiny leather shoes, athletic clothing, and other accessories.
It’s all perfectly organized, thanks to me. Not that it wasn’t before I started working here and doing most of the laundry—it’s just that no one else ever touches his things. According to the kitchen staff, I’m one of the few workers who gets to enter his room and closet.
I skim my fingers across the fabrics, watching the sheen of the overhead recessed lighting reflect off their surfaces. A box on the far side of the closet holds a line of watches, cuff links, and perfectly wound belts.
My gaze catches on something shiny next to the box. I shouldn’t…but I do—what’s that saying, curiosity killed the cat?
Consider me dead.
I move closer as if I’m tethered to the object, and the glint of a knife edge gleams back at me. I nearly gasp as I take in the sight of it. It’s eight inches long, has a black handle, and a long, shiny, silver point. I’ve never seen a knife like this before; then again, who the hell needs a knife like that?
Don’t do it. Do not touch it.
Against my better judgment, my hand moves on its own, and I gently pick up the knife. Grasping the handle tightly, I lift it toward my face to get a better look at it. The blade is shiny, without a speck of dirt, blood, or any imperfection.
What does Sebastian use a knife like this for?
I think back to some of the rumors I’ve heard about him from those who attend Oakmount, and even some of the staff. It’s been said that he has a thing for blood and pain in the bedroom, among other darker things I refuse to think about. A shiver ripples down my spine at the thought. Okay, I need to stop thinking about this. Even as the memory of scrubbing blood out of Egyptian cotton rises up.
I swallow thickly, my attention gravitating back to the shimmering blade. They’re just rumors, Elyse. That’s what I tell myself, even if I know better.
What if it were me he was using this knife on? No, that’s a foolish thought. He might look at me with heat flickering in his eyes every now and then, but that means nothing, not when he’s almost always cursing my name or shoving me around to do his bidding.
I’d rather climb in bed with a panther than sleep with him. Hell, I’d probably climb out with fewer injuries.
I tighten my grip on the handle and stare over the edge of the blade, my gaze darting to the fancy line of clothes hanging just inches away. I don’t know a damn thing about this knife, but I know the blade will cut through wool and cotton like butter. I can feel it. Sense it.
A smile tugs at my lips. And wouldn’t that be the best payback for how he treated me? How he made me watch while he tore up my hard work. Ahhh, yes. Let’s see how he likes having his hard work destroyed.
Before I can think better of it or stop myself, I lunge forward and stab the knife into the breast of the expensive designer suit, piercing through the plastic of the dry cleaning bag and into the material. It takes nothing but a flick of the wrist to drag the blade down, shredding the wool all the way to the edge of the jacket and snagging the pants as I pull it free.
It feels good. Too good.
I pause, the knife suddenly feeling heavier in my hand as I reflect on what I’ve done.
This suit probably costs thousands, yet all I can think is that it’s just another dollar added to the growing debt I’ll never be able to repay. It’s wrong. I know it. My mind orders me to stop, that the repercussions aren’t worth the deranged man’s wrath, but I don’t care.
I’m on a high, and making certain Sebastian knows where I stand is all that matters to me. Turning my attention to the next suit, I do the same thing, stabbing the knife deep and hard until the hilt meets the fabric—no plastic on this one. Watching the blade slice through the rich material is almost mesmerizing. It’s petty revenge, but revenge at its best. I attack the next two suits, slicing cleanly through them. Each suit is a semblance of ribbons now, and that fills my chest with pride.
My hand shakes as I remove the knife from the last one, a shiny gray material that catches in the light. I’ve seen him wearing this exact one, and I squeeze my eyes closed against the memory of how it spread across his broad, football-honed shoulders. He looked so charming and gorgeous in it.
Not anymore. Charming and gorgeous on the outside.
I take a step back, admiring the damage I’ve caused.
But venom and tar on the inside.
It dawns on me then that he’s probably going to kill me in retaliation. Then skin me and wear my skin as payback for destroying his expensive clothes. It’s inevitable at this point. There would be no way to hide the evidence of what I’ve done. Better to own up to it.
I look at the other side of the closet. Those clothes are still pristine, without a single wrinkle. Would it be too much to think that he might not notice? At least until we get back.
I can always hope, right? I turn on my heels and lean forward to place the knife back by the box of cuff links, but as I do, I lose my grip, and my thumb slips off the handle, pressing against the sharp blade. I pull my finger away instantly, but it’s too late. The blade has already cut through my skin, and a stinging sensation followed by pain zings along my finger.
“Dammit!” I gasp and shove my thumb into my mouth, sucking on the wound so I don’t drip blood all over the floor. It’s not deep, thankfully, but I know the blade itself is sharp enough that it could’ve very well cut my finger off.
Because of my anxiety and years of dealing with my father’s alcoholism, I’m attuned to every little sound. It’s why when I hear a scuffle just outside the door, I freeze, my thumb still in my mouth. Fear latches onto me, but instinct keeps me in place.
I’m dead. He’s going to kill me.
Slowly, I return to my senses and place the knife back in its hiding spot. Then I do the only thing I know how to do. I run. I race out of the closet and shut the door, but it bounces off the frame instead of closing all the way, leaving it cracked open. One glance inside, and I’ll be ruined. Dammit, Elyse. Why did you have to be so dumb?
I throw myself down in front of the suitcase and pull my thumb from my mouth, tucking it into the side of my jeans to keep from getting blood on his clothes. Lord only knows what he would make me do if I stained his precious clothing. The irony of what waits in the closet makes me tremble harder.
My gaze moves to the door. There’s a scrape of shoes over a rug, then the sharp crack of the sole of a foot slapping against the hardwood floor. Anticipation builds low in my belly. I know he’s coming, and I can’t stop what’s going to happen, but that doesn’t prepare me.
The door swings open in a rush, and he steps inside. Fuck. I should look away and hide my eyes because they’re a portal to my guilty conscience. The heavy thump of my heartbeat fills my ears, and I’m right on the fringes of panic as I stare up at him, wide-eyed and afraid.
Very afraid. I’ve never done something so stupid, so reckless, something that is so not Elyse.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” It’s merely a question, but I’m still stuck on the way his voice sounds, how low it is, carrying with it a different level of darkness.
Shit.
I shake my head and stare down at my trembling hands. “I’m not.” My voice squeaks out, sounding high and stupidly suspicious. “I mean, no reason.” I couldn’t be any more obvious if I tried.
Stalking closer, he cocks his head to the side, his eyes narrowing. “What did you do, Ely?”
I flinch at the nickname but don’t answer; nor do I call him out on using it like I usually do. I’m far too worried about what might happen to me next than to squabble over something so stupid. No response is a good response, right?
Wrong.
He clicks his tongue at me.”Oh, Little Prey, what have you done?”
I’m not sure that nickname is any better, but at least he—my father—never called me by that one, so the sound of it on someone’s lips doesn’t make me want to curl up and die.
Somehow I manage to swallow around the knot in my throat and keep myself from vomiting. “N-nothing. Just packed your clothes like you asked. Now that I think about it, we should probably get going. You wanted to leave immediately, right?”
He steps closer when I shift to my knees to stand, halting my movements with a hand planted on my shoulder. The weight of it is heavy, pressing down on me, and that dark, pensive gaze of his roams over the suitcase, the bed, and the floor around me. Like a damn bloodhound, he’s sniffing for the scent, seeking out my crimes.
“Mmm, not so fast. You’re acting way too guilty to have just packed my clothes.”
Fuck. He knows. Like a predator, he peers around the room, stopping only when his gaze reaches the closet. Please, lord. If you spare me, I promise not to do anything else so insanely stupid… maybe, like for a whole day.
The ground beneath me crumbles when he lifts his hand, the pressure on my shoulder disappearing. I need to get out of this room. If I can escape, then I might be okay. I rush to stand right as he takes three massive steps in the direction of the closet. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand press against the door. He shoves it open, and I know there’s no way he isn’t seeing the destruction I’ve caused.
Move, dammit, I order my body, but I’m too consumed by the raw fear that my body has frozen itself.
“What the fuck?” His booming voice trails off, and the sound of plastic shifting, as if he’s moving it out of the way, filters into my ears.
I try to ignore the sounds and stare intently at my feet, wondering how I can make myself smaller. What’s done is done, but what can I do to make the punishment less? Because he will punish me. He hasn’t before, but I’ve also never made such a stupid choice either.
“Elyse…” My ears burn, my name punctuated sharply, just like the skin I cut with his blade. Even knowing he expects me to say something or react, at least, I don’t move, and I don’t respond.
When he steps out of the closet, I’m left confused. His face is perfectly blank; there’s no expression whatsoever, except for the tight clenching of his jaw, accentuating his jaw, making him appear more like the cruel beast he is. His body language is another story, though. There’s no missing the anger that rolls off him in waves, threatening to sweep me under and drag me into its dark depths. My eyes dart down to his clenched fist, which is strangling a scrap of gray material. He holds it up for me to see as if I don’t know what it is he’s shoving against my nose. As if I don’t know I’ve dug my own grave in one irrational act of vengeance.