“You think so?” I ask, those words making parts of me tingle that haven’t come alive in quite a while, like a match being struck and finally finding a flame.
“Without a doubt,” he says, not letting up. Pressure builds inside of me as I run my fingers through his thick hair. “I’d wreck you for any man that came along after me, put them all to shame, because I’d give you exactly what you wanted.”
“How could you possibly know what I want?”
“Because,” he says, grabbing a fistful of my hair and twisting my head, forcing me to turn away from him. “Looking at you is like looking in a mirror, Scarlet.”
He keeps his grip on my hair, holding my head there, pinning me to the door with his body as his other hand slides between us, slipping down the front of my pants. Rough fingertips rub my clit, and I let out a cry at the jarring sensation.
Holy fuck, I’m close.
I can feel it in every inch of my body, all the way down to my bones—the tension, the tightening, the desperate need for unraveling as it builds and builds and builds. He yanks my head further to the side, pain creeping across my scalp. His lips are on my throat, his tongue swiping across the small cut from the knife. The stinging sensation shoves me over the edge as he brings me to orgasm. Pleasure rushes through me. I squeeze my eyes shut, my lips parting, noise catching in my throat as my body convulses.
Uhhhhh…
“Fuck,” I gasp. “Uhhh… fuck.”
As soon as it fades, he stops, letting go of my hair, letting me look at him again as he removes his hand from my pants. I damn near fall, my legs dropping down, feet hitting the floor again as he pulls away. I stay pressed up against the door, keeping my distance, even as he retreats a few steps, giving me space. He retrieves my knife from the floor, regarding it in the darkness. Four-inch blade, iridescent rainbow coloring, the dark handle etched with spiders.
My heart pounds hard, making my vision hazy as he strolls toward me with it.
His eyes flicker from the knife to me, as a small smile twists his lips. Locking the blade away, he holds it out. I take it carefully, surprised that he’s returning it. He seems like the type to confiscate people’s possessions and call them his own. Not that I have room to talk or anything, considering stealing from him is what got me in this mess in the first place, but still… I don’t know what to make of it.
I don’t know what to make of any of it.
I slip the knife away, eyeing him. “Why are you here?”
“Sixty-six cents,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few coins, tossing them at me. I don’t try to catch them. There’s no point. They hit the floor and scatter, rolling around, a discolored quarter coming to rest near my foot. “Figured I’d pay you back before midnight struck and interest kicked in.”
I stare at it. “Well, I guess we’re even now, huh?”
“Seems that way.”
Pushing away from the door, I move past him through the apartment. I’m still fully clothed, but I feel completely exposed in front of that man right now. Way too exposed. “I’m sure you can let yourself out, you know, since you had no problem letting yourself in.”
I make my way up to the roof. My hands are shaking and I need fresh air. I need the hell out of there. The place is a stifling cubbyhole made of splintering wood and crumbling brick, not much of an apartment, much less a home. Even most prison cells have four walls and a ceiling, a place to lay your head while cut off from society.
I’ve lived worse places, though. A lot worse.
Try sleeping chained up in a concrete dungeon, and then we’ll talk about living in hell, because I’ve been there.
A cloud of breath surrounds me, my teeth chattering, as I step out onto the roof, strolling over to the ledge and sitting down on it. The wind is bitter cold, slicing against my skin like razor blades, but I welcome the sensation, letting it cool my feverish skin.
It’s nice just to feel something, even if that something is pain.
My gaze drifts out toward the river just a handful of blocks away. Massive housing projects block most of the view from here, but sitting on the ledge, right in this spot, I can see a sliver of the dark water between the buildings, and beyond that, the skyline of Brooklyn.
Just a moment passes before I hear the noise coming from my apartment, the sound of footsteps on the ladder leading to the roof behind me. I don’t turn to look, listening as he comes near. He’s not trying to go unnoticed, not sneaking around, but his approach is reserved, more casual than determined.
I don’t know what he wants.
I don’t know why he’s still here.
But I don’t have it in me to ask, either.
What does it matter?
The icy wild blasts me with his unique scent as he props himself against the ledge beside me. I cut my eyes his way when he sniffles, rubbing his busted nose with the back of his hand, the bleeding stopped for the most part. He says nothing at first as he looks out at the city, but his silence isn’t some form of punishment he’s forcing upon me.
No, it’s a rare solace, one I find I’m grateful for.
Eventually, though, he finds his voice. “You should go for the eyes, you know.”
“The eyes?”
He nods. “You break a nose, they’ll recover once the adrenaline kicks in, but you take an eye out and they’re fucked. They can’t catch you if they can’t find you.”
Huh. “I’ll have to remember that.”
Chapter Ten
The pink nightgown had always been the little girl’s favorite. Ruffled short sleeves, soft cotton, with a big bow on the front of it. Her mother told her she was a beautiful princess whenever she wore it, and she had felt that way.
But as the little girl sat in the Tin Man’s den, perched in a black leather chair way too big for her small body, she felt kind of like Cinderella before she went to the ball, the one with the wicked stepmother, except the little girl had a Papa.
She didn’t like the new nightgown he’d given her. It was white and made her skin itchy. She kept scratching... and scratching... and scratching. Ugh. She stared at the flickering flames in the fireplace as it ate up what was left of the pink fabric.
“Why couldn’t I keep it?” she asked quietly, looking to the Tin Man sitting in the identical chair beside her, a small table separating the two of them.
He plucked a glass off of that table, filled almost to the top with a clear liquid. It looked like water, but he grimaced when he drank it, which told the little girl it might’ve been something different.
“It stunk,” he said, his voice lazy, words slurring. He slouched, long legs spread out, his knee constantly moving.
“You couldn’t clean it?” she asked.
He took another drink before casting a flat look her way, no humor in his watery, bloodshot eyes. “It stunk like your mother.”
The little girl still didn’t understand. Her mother always smelled so pretty.
“But if we washed it—”
“Enough!” His voice was sharp as he slammed the glass down on the table, spilling some out, sloshing it onto his skin. He shook his hand angrily, a sprinkle splashing the little girl as he waved toward the fire. “It is gone, kitten. Ash. You cannot have it back. It is not worth your tears and neither is she, so stop crying. Do you hear me? Stop crying!”
She wasn’t crying, not right then, but as he screamed those words, tears streamed down his cheeks. Picking up the glass again, he hauled his arm back, flinging it across the room, shattering it in the fireplace.
The little girl tried to slink away as the flames roared. The Tin Man ran his hands down his face, wiping away his tears. Growling, he stood, his hands clenched. In a rage, he beat himself in the chest with his fist as he snarled, “Stop this, right now! Stop it!”
She whimpered, his anger scaring her, the sound drawing his attention. The Tin Man turned her way, flexing his fingers. “Go to your room. I cannot deal with you... not while I am still grieving her.”
The little girl got up, running from the room, wanting out of his sight before her own tears started to fall. As soon as she was in the hallway, she heard him scream, just like she’d heard that night a week ago. Except, he was alone now. Her mother wasn’t there for him to turn his anger into pain.