65. Emily

65

EMILY

C ohen canted his head to the side, his glare penetrating as he twirled the knife in one hand while watching me from the corner of his eye. Almost like the gears inside that cracked skull of his had stopped turning the second his brain settled on its next twisted little thought. My gaze bounced from the look on his face to the way his fingers wrapped tightly around the blade. The tips brushing along the metal. Working it far more gently than those same fingers ever worked me.

I could only imagine what the man was thinking. Actually, I couldn't. And I didn't want to. Some thoughts were far too dark. Even for me.

"I think it's time we dated," he said a bit too calmly.

There was a damn good chance I was hallucinating. Hearing things. Maybe even hysterical. Or I could have been dead and this was my version of hell. Who knew anymore?

Whatever was wrong with me, or him, or both of us… it had me cackling until my chest hurt, my breaths coming out on a wheeze as I choked on a mixture of saliva and blood before forcing both down my throat. A poor man's liquid diet. It did nothing to stave off the hunger pangs but it did ease some of the burning of the acid as a whole lotta nothing churned around in my stomach.

Funny enough, I knew starvation. It was an old childhood friend of mine. And it sure as shit wouldn't break me. Cohen Michaels would have to try a little harder for that.

"Pretty certain we gave that a go in college. And look how well that worked out." I snorted, quickly covering the sound with a hand as I continued to giggle behind the shelter of a cupped palm.

Yeah, probably hysterical. Definitely mad.

Cohen lifted his shoulder into a half shrug. "I don't know. Ten years is a long time to be in a relationship. Can't just throw that all away, now can we, pet?"

"What relationship?" I laughed.

He threw out an arm while gesturing an index finger between the two of us. His expression blank as he replied with as few words as possible. "You and me."

"We are not in relationship, asshole. Hell, what we did back then probably shouldn't have been considered one either."

"I took you on dates before. I enjoyed myself. We should go on more." Cohen nodded once, and I had no doubt that in his head it was a done deal.

That hadn't changed either. It was always about what the almost but not quite a doctor wanted. Though his arrogance went far beyond the almost part. And landed on the far end of undeniable. Everyone else could get on board or they could get fucked. To him it was just that simple.

"Oh sure, just let me grab my purse and slip into something a little more comfortable and then off we go into the sunset— you fucking kidnapped me, you psychopath !" I scooted forward on the heels of my feet, my hand primed and ready to land another slap. Only to have Cohen swipe out and grab my wrist before I could make contact with that look on his too-fucking-smug face.

"You're starting to sound a little bitchy, babe. Are you on the rag or some shit? It's fine if you are." He paused. His glare flitting downward and snapping back up again as a smirk danced across his lips. Before it was gone entirely. His mouth now curled into a snarl that was clearly aimed my way. "I mean, what's a little blood on your dick, am I right?"

Cohen tugged me forward, dragging my top half over his lap as he lifted the thin material of the hospital blanket and exposed my bare ass to the stagnant air. I struggled to pull myself up but his grip was too tight as I shivered without meaning to, my body reacting to the sudden change in temperature as he landed a rough palm against my right cheek. The sharp sting traveled up and down my backside, nearly ringing in my ears before I realized where his hand was going. Then he pried my thighs apart as he dipped a finger as far as he could reach inside me, twisting it around then drawing it out as I glared back at him from over a shoulder.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Just lifting the hood to check the oil. Nope, not bleeding," he grunted. "Just being a cunt then." He issued another slap to my left cheek before shoving me aside. Then he was up on his black combat boots, his steps slapping against the concrete—much louder than they needed to be—as he stalked towards the door and slammed it shut again. Also louder than he needed to.

I sat rooted to my spot, the skin on my ass burning and probably two shades darker than it was a few minutes ago as a small part of me considered chasing after him. Seeing if I could escape somehow or at the very least not make it so goddamn easy for everyone. Because now I knew there was an everyone . A whole bunch of them. Working together with the shared goal of doing who the fuck knows.

I guess I didn't see the point in pretending anymore. The fantasy where this had been random was gone the moment Mr. IT's creepy-looking bunny mask was tossed aside and I realized just how very not random it had all been.

Nope, nothing was coincidental. Not when you're the fucking target.