Fallon
He twists the blade, the point pressing against the tip of his index finger. He ponders for a second like he is a butcher debating where he should cut first.
Instead, he reaches for my left hand.
“I’m curious how you came to be,” he says lightly, like we’re having a conversation over coffee instead of in a dungeon of his making. “This one—” he lifts my wedding hand, tapping the ring with the tip of the blade, “—means something to Leone, doesn’t it? Or were you merely a transaction, a business deal?” I grit my teeth. A slow, sly smile spreads across his face. He twists the ring on my finger between his, turning it over.
“Bigger than the one he gave Lydia,” he murmurs.
I rip my hand back instinctively, and he jerks it forward again, gripping my wrist.
“Don’t,” I hiss as my panic
