The Sixes

chapter 8

Brianna

The heavy, suffocating quietness of the red room weighs on me, wrapping itself around my nerves like a vice. My fists are clenched tight, knuckles aching from earlier when I pounded on that damned door. My muscles are stiff from pacing, from the mounting frustration that's settled deep in my chest. I’m all too aware of the broken camera in the corner, a constant reminder that Kaden was watching me till the moment I smashed the camera to smithereens.

I hate this feeling, this trapped sensation gnawing at my insides. I hate him for putting me here, for thinking he can control me, cage me like some animal.

The walkie-talkie’s been silent for a while now. The meeting must be over. A sick sort of anticipation builds in my stomach, twisting into knots. I know he’s coming.

And then I feel it—the shift in the air, the faint prickle on the back of my neck. The door creaks open, slow and deliberate. Kaden steps in, his presence a weight in the room, so much heavier than before. My body reacts before I can stop it, every muscle tensing as his footsteps approach. I refuse to turn away from him, my heart racing despite myself.

“Miss me?” His voice is calm, smooth, but there’s a dark undertone to it, one that makes my pulse quicken in all the wrong ways. I grit my teeth, keeping my back to him. I won’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

He starts moving closer, his footsteps slow and measured, like he’s savoring the moment. The room feels too small, too stifling with him in it, and I hate how every part of me is hyper-aware of his presence.

And then, in a blur of motion, he grabs me. His hand clamps around my wrist, yanking me to him with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs. Before I can even react, he spins me around and shoves me toward the bed. My knees hit the mattress, and before I can brace myself, he pushes me down, face-first into the soft bedding.

The knife falls with a loud clatter onto the wooden floor. I hold my breath, and curse myself because I might have just signed my death note in glitter blood. Maybe Edward Cullen's.

My body lands hard, the weight of him pressing down against my back, trapping me in place. My arms flail for a second before I catch myself, my palms sinking into the plush vermillion surface. My cheek presses into the fabric, my breathing ragged, heart pounding in my ears.

“Get off me!” I snap, twisting under his grip, but it’s futile. His body is solid, unmovable, pinning me down as if I weigh nothing. The pressure of his hands on my shoulders sends a jolt of heat through me, a mix of fury and something else I refuse to acknowledge.

“You didn’t listen.” His voice is low, almost a whisper, brushing the back of my neck like a taunt. “You never listen, Brianna.”

The way he says my name, like he owns it, makes my blood boil. I buck against him, trying to shift out from under his grip, but he tightens his hold, leaning in closer. The heat of his breath grazes my skin, and I can feel the smirk in his voice when he speaks again.

“I warned you,” he says softly, his tone dripping with malevolent satisfaction. “But you’re so stubborn, aren’t you? Always thinking you can fight me.”

I press my teeth into my lip, determined to deny him the satisfaction of a response. My chest rises and falls sharply, as I struggle to quell the inferno raging within, frustration intertwining with the thick tension that lingers between us. The mattress sinks beneath my weight, every muscle in my body straining against the urge to resist, to tear myself free from his oppressive hold. Yet, his tenacious grip—unyielding as iron.

“You think you’re strong enough to fight me?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You’re not leaving until I’m done with you. You know that, don’t you?”