Kiss Me in the Dark Anthology - Monica James Page 0,23

sense of freedom is unsettling. Something which I took for granted has been snatched out from under me, and now that I’ve been given it back, I don’t know what to do with it—like a bird being released from her cage but is too scared to spread her wings.

Not sure when I will be given this freedom again, I brush past him, his trademark scent smashing into me. It’s not a bad sensation; it’s just…familiar, which is absurd. I stop in front of the shelves, placing my hands on my hips and blowing the hair from my cheeks.

Tuna fish, a few cans of soup, a small bag of flour, dry milk, and what appears to be dried jerky—nothing looks remotely appetizing. However, when I see some potatoes, eggs, and a bag of rice in a drawer below the sink, things start looking up slightly.

Tapping my chin, I begin to channel my inner MasterChef.

“See anything acceptable?” Saint asks, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say his tone carried a touch of playfulness in it.

“It doesn’t look completely hopeless,” I reply, my back still turned. “Growing up in my household, you were forced to make do with whatever was lying around.”

I realize this is the first piece of information I’ve shared about myself with Saint. How will he respond? Will he see me as a person and not merely a means to an end?

“Didn’t your parents stick around?”

Surprised that he actually cares, I don’t make a big deal about it and shrug. “My dad died when I was twelve. After that, my mom just sort of forgot I existed.” When he’s quiet, I turn over my shoulder, and add, “What? Not the story you were expecting? Expecting the life of a spoiled brat who turned to modeling after sleeping with every hotshot in LA?”

His predominant Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. I’ve caught him off guard. “I’ve come to learn not to expect anything when you’re involved.”

Well, damn. That’s given me food for thought.

Clearing my throat, I go back to making sense of our menu, rather than analyzing what he means by that comment. “I can probably make some sort of a frittata or omelet.” Forgetting he’s here, I walk over to the small fridge and find some frozen vegetables in the tiny freezer. I can work with that.

Grabbing what I need, I dump everything onto the table, pointing at each item to catalog its purpose in my head. The potatoes can’t go in whole. I need a knife. I switch my gaze from the small pile to Saint, who stands on the opposite side of the table watching me.

“I need utensils like a bowl, spoon. A knife,” I add nonchalantly, trying my best to mask my nerves.

He sighs low as if deep in thought.

“Or you can always help?” I suggest as I need to play this off. I don’t plan on using the knife, but I plan on gaining his trust with it.

A cloud of uncertainty lingers, but eventually, he reaches into his back pocket and produces his switchblade. My nose instantly screws up in revulsion. “I am not using that to prepare my meal.”

That blade is the same one he severed my attacker’s throat with. The sunshine catches the bright silver of the metal, and I shiver as memories crash into me. But I pull it together and extend my hand.

I wish I could see his face because right now, I’m just guessing his thoughts. Without any facial expressions, he is merely my captor, but that is exactly what he is, and I need to remember that. Just because he’s showing a shred of decency doesn’t excuse the despicable things he’s done.

This is a test. I’m testing him, and he’s testing me.

My gaze never wavers from his as I appear bored, waiting for him to give me the knife. But there is no doubt he’s contemplating his next move. This is the first step to gaining his trust because all I need is a little leeway to get to the radio or to somehow steal his phone.

The air is thick with anticipation, but eventually, he caves.

When he places the switchblade into my palm, every part of me sings in victory, but I remain passive.

“Thank you…мастер.”

A hiss escapes him as he takes a small step back, which is exactly the response I wanted. But I play it off and instead turn, hunting for a saucepan. When I find a small one, I place it on the stovetop and pour