Bloodlines and Bullets

twenty-three

I stand there, trying to hide the trembling in my legs, every nerve screaming at me to fight, to run, but the reality of my situation crashes down like a weight too heavy to bear. His presence fills the room, oppressive and suffocating, as he watches me with a sadistic gleam in his eyes.

"Let's get one thing straight," he says, his voice smooth, almost pleasant, but laced with a deadly edge. "You're mine to command. And I won't tolerate any disobedience."

I glare at him, the fire in my chest refusing to be extinguished despite the terror coursing through me. "Fuck you," I spit out.

His smile widens. He takes a slow step forward, closing the distance between us. I instinctively flinch, hating myself for the involuntary reaction. "Oh, you'll break," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. "Everyone breaks eventually. The question is how much pain it'll take."

He circles me slowly, the knife still in his hand. My heart pounds in my chest, but I refuse to back down, my eyes following his every move. Suddenly he stops behind me, and I feel the cold steel of the knife press against the back of my neck. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.

"You're strong-willed," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. "I like that. It'll make breaking you all the more satisfying."

I grit my teeth. "You must be really insecure to need all this."

His laughter is low and mocking. "Someone found their balls." He presses the knife a little harder, just enough to make me wince.

I can feel the blood trickling down my neck, a slow, warm line that drips onto the collar of my shirt. Every instinct tells me to fight back, but I know that any sudden movement could end with that blade slicing deeper. So I stand still, my body rigid, my mind racing for a way out, for something, anything, to use against him.

But he's too close, too strong, and too sure of his control over me.

"Is this your grand rebellion? How adorable. I've seen more impressive acts from a toddler," he says, finally pulling the knife away and stepping back.

My heart stings. He doesn't take me seriously at all. He makes me feel like a fool. There is a particular place in my heart for people who make others feel small - I hate them more than anything.

"Are you done now with your big-boy act?" I retort, my voice dripping with hatred.

Before I can even think about what I've just said, he lashes out, backhanding me across the face. The force of the blow sends me stumbling to the side, my vision exploding into white stars. I hit the ground hard, my cheek stinging, and the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

"Get up," he orders, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Now."

My entire body shakes, but I push myself up, my knees protesting with every movement. Fresh blood drips from the cut on my lip, mingling with the sweat on my face. I meet his gaze, and despite the pain, despite the fear, I force a defiant smile. My skin burns where he struck me, the pain radiating outwards, but the fire in my chest is stronger.

"Take a seat," he orders, gesturing toward the leather chairs on the right side of the room.

I remain rooted in place, defiance etched into every muscle.

"Sit."

"I'm not your lapdog," I snap back.

His lips twist into a cold, predatory smile. "No, you're more like a stray."

I bristle at his words, my jaw tightening. "And you're nothing but a flea-ridden mongrel," I retort, my voice sharp with disdain.

A dark glimmer flickers in his eyes, a trace of amusement that only fuels my anger further. "You have a sharp tongue. But I have a sharper knife."