Michael
Every second that ticks by burns hotter in my gut.
I sit perfectly still, a combat knife resting on my thigh; I roll the blade between my fingers, letting the edge kiss my thumb without breaking skin. Muscles pulled tight like wire, I wait for her to come back to consciousness. A thin, metallic drip nicks at the rotten quiet of the room. Then a small, animal sound—she’s waking. It takes effort not to cross the distance and crush that fragile body under my hands. She clutches her throat, props herself up on her elbows.
Those green eyes blink, hunting for where the hell she is—until they land on me. The scared gasp, the way she tries to vanish into the wall, the awkward crawl that pins her between cinderblock and consequence. Then her gaze drops… sees the knife playing in my right
