Bloodlines and Bullets

seven

As I rub my wrists, trying to ease the pain, he pushes the tray of food toward me. I eye it suspiciously, knowing I need the energy but hating the idea of accepting anything from him.

"What do you want from me?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, trying to mask the fear with indifference.

"The truth," he replies simply, his eyes boring into mine. "Tell me your name."

"Brad Pitt," I snap back, my tone dripping with defiance.

His eyes narrow, a flicker of annoyance passing over his face, but he doesn't lose his composure. "I don't have time for games," he says, his voice dangerously calm.

"Neither do I," I retort, meeting his gaze head-on.

For a moment, we sit in silence, the tension thick between us. I reluctantly take a bite of the bagel, the taste dry and almost inedible, but I force it down, needing the sustenance. My every move feels scrutinized, his gaze unrelenting.

As I eat, I can feel the bruises on my body throbbing with each breath. My feet are still sore from the cuts, a constant reminder of my desperate attempt to escape. The room feels colder, the air heavy with the scent of old wood and lingering tension.

He watches me, his eyes cold and piercing, as if he's trying to see through me, to pick apart my every thought. My body throbs from the earlier beating, the bruises a painful reminder of his brutality.

"Where are you from?" he asks, his voice soft but with an edge that sends a chill down my spine.

I swallow, meeting his gaze with as much defiance as I can muster. "I already told you, I'm from Canada."

He raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a mocking smile. "Who are you protecting?"

I can't help but let out a bitter laugh. "Protecting? If I had anyone worth protecting, I wouldn't be here, would I?"

His expression darkens, and he leans closer, his face inches from mine. "You think this is funny? You think you can play games with me?"

I flinch inwardly but maintain a façade of nonchalance. "Honestly? I don't know why I'm here. I'm just a regular person who got caught up in the wrong situation."

His smile fades, replaced by a look of cold fury. "Regular people don't get involved in these kinds of situations, Thalia. Regular people don't end up in my care."

I feel a flash of fear but cover it with sarcasm. "Wow, 'your care' - is that what you call beating people up? You must be a real hit at parties."

He grabs my chin, his grip painfully tight, forcing me to meet his eyes. "You think this is a joke?" he hisses. "You think you can mock me and walk away?"

My heart races, but I force myself to maintain eye contact. "I don't know what you want from me," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know anything about your dead men."

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something dangerous behind them. "You're lying," he says coldly. "And I don't like liars."

"Believe what you want," I snap back, my voice laced with defiance. "But I'm telling the truth. I'm not a killer, and I'm not involved in whatever mess you're trying to clean up."

He releases his grip, stepping back with a look of contempt. "You're not leaving until I have my answers," he says, his tone hard and unforgiving. "And if you can't give them to me, well... I have ways of finding out the truth."

The threat hangs in the air, palpable and menacing. His words make my skin crawl. He seems to relish the idea of tormenting me further. But I need to play this smart; I need to survive.