Kiss Me in the Dark Anthology - Monica James Page 0,155
again. His hands are covered in my blood, his fingers making sticky oval-shaped marks every time he shifts his grip.
“Your fingerprints,” I say, swaying where I sit. I should really lay down, but if I lay down, I’ll pass out, and if I pass out, I might die.
Rome nods, still focused on the task at hand. “I know.”
Whoever gets this - my father, Enzo, Nathan, the FBI … the evidence will be clear: Rome Montague’s fingerprints. Avery Capulet’s blood.
They’ll think he had something to do with this. They’ll think he took me, as payback for our family’s relentless greed for power. I can’t think about that right now. It’s too much to fathom, and besides: Who says we’re ever getting out of here? I have to get out of here.
I close my eyes and let him press the blade deeper, deeper, until it feels like he might hit bone.
“I think it’s enough, now,” Rome says, taking the knife away. I open my eyes again, peering down at the newspaper, now soaked in my blood. I reach down with my good hand and turn the paper over, making sure the blood has soaked through to the back of the pages. As I do, I notice the date in the top corner of the front page. My mind does the math even as I try to force it not to.
“We’ve been here for two weeks,” I whisper to Rome. My entire body starts to tremble violently and I can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t hear. “Two weeks. Why haven’t they found us?”
I’m bleeding all over myself, all over Rome, all over the damn floor in this fucking room that I can’t get out of. And Rome’s holding the knife, and he did it. He hurt me. He took the knife and drew it along my skin, a choked sound of disbelief coming from his throat as my blood sprang forth. And we’ve been here for two goddamn fucking weeks.
“We’re going to die down here,” I choke. “You and me, in the dark. He’s going to murder us.”
“No,” Rome protests. “We’re going to get out of here.” And something shifts in his expression. Falls away. The armour he wears fades just a little, and I remember the face of the boy I fell in love with, underneath all of that violence and sorrow and tough-guy exterior he has to put on for survival. More than that. Recognition flickers in his eyes. He knows I’m about to lose my shit and have a total fucking meltdown before I know. He’s always been that way. He’s always known me better than I know myself. How could I have forgotten that about him?
I start to sob. I’m pretty sure I am losing my goddamn mind. “We’re not,” I cry. “We’re not getting out.”
“I promise you we’re getting out of here,” Rome says, pulling me to his chest, wrapping me in a bear hug. He’s careful to hold my injured arm higher than the rest of me, his large palm acting as a makeshift seal across my bleeding skin as he holds the wound higher than my heart. I’m crushed against him, both of us on our knees, but he’s supporting his weight and mine. This isn’t the first time he’s rescued me from a panic attack. I was having them long before somebody decided to kidnap us and put us in hell.
“It’s okay, it’s alright,” Rome murmurs, his words hot against my neck. He buries his face in my long hair and breathes loudly, slowly, as if he’s demonstrating the rhythm for me to mimic. I can’t stop shaking though, the numb safety I’ve managed to ensconce myself in - mentally, at least - sliding away like a fucking avalanche. It all hits me at once: two weeks ago, my worst fear was being married to a man I loathed. Since then, my father has been shot, I’ve been kidnapped, beaten, raped, I have internal injuries from my IUD that I’m pretty sure are trying to finish me off, and I’ve watched Rome get shot while our captor rutted into me at the same time. I’ve kept my cool throughout the lot, even with the crying and the begging and the screaming: I’ve never once lost my shit, not like this. But there’s something about the collar around my neck, about the newspaper soaked in blood, about the twelve fucking days we’ve been down here, that just absolutely fucking destroy me.