Abby

“I’m Craig. You’re…” He lets his words trail off as he rakes his eyes over me, but I say nothing before sipping my coffee. “If you don’t give me your name, I’ll just call you Beauty.”

How original.

Plenty of women will overlook his arrogance, confusing it for cockiness, possibly even find it charming

But I’m the wrong girl.

“How about calling me Not Interested? Because that’s the most apt depiction of me at the moment,” I tell him, leaning back in my chair, relaxed and fully in control.

“Apparently you haven’t gotten a good look,” he proceeds, leaning back and pretty much posing in a stance that gives me nothing more to look at than an arrogant ass.

“I’ve seen more than enough. Still not interested.”

His look darkens as he takes a step back.

“Fine. Fuck it. I don’t need frostbite on my dick anyway,” he says before turning and walking toward a table where another guy is sitting.

I resume watching the footage on my phone, until I feel eyes on me. Mr. Arrogant’s friend doesn’t look away when I look up and catch him studying me. He’s not leering or even acting interested. I’d say he’s trying to read me, just the way I do people

His grin only grows. “You always so defensive?” he muses. “Are you constantly worried about the intentions of others? Or is it an extreme feminist position that keeps you on edge about a man doing something as mediocre as paying for your coffee and muffin?”

He is reading me. I knew it.

The cheap suit suddenly makes sense, along with the dark SUV. “You’re FBI,” I note, taking in the fact Quantico isn’t too far away.

His grin broadens. “What makes you think that?”

“You’re profiling me, for one, which would likely put you to be somewhere in that field, given the ride and attire. Your friend has an expensive suit that he wears to impress, but yours is less flashy. Your posture around him and good-natured ribbing towards him leads me to believe you’re equals, despite the financial difference. So I’m assuming he comes from money, and you’ve earned your own way. The SUV isn’t a standardized version. The blacked out windows are too dark to be legally tinted, but I know the FBI are given certain leniencies due to security risks. So am I right?”

I really hate the way he continues to smile, as though he’s only more intrigued instead of freaked out. I wanted to freak him out.

“You’re not a paid profiler, not FBI, and not affiliated with any military unit,” he says, confusing me. “Your outfit is bohemian chic, meaning you’re less worried about your outward appearance and more concerned with comfort. You sit alone by choice, and dismiss any attention sent your way. At first glance, you’re too feminist for your own good. At second glance, you’re someone who is hard to get close to because trust isn’t something you share too often. It keeps you from being hurt by people, but it also keeps you from having anyone in your life. At night, when you close your eyes and allow yourself to be vulnerable…that’s the only time you dare to wonder what it’d be like to be with someone.”

I swallow down the knot in my throat. He’s too dead-on. I shouldn’t be so easily readable. I’ve trained against it for years.

“No pets, given the fact there’s not any pet hair on you, unless you have those who won’t shed. However, I don’t see you allowing yourself to become attached to an animal, when you know you’ll most likely outlive it and have to deal with the heartbreak of losing said animal. You’re detached by necessity, most likely a painful past that pushed you into this direction. A loss, perhaps. Maybe more than one loss. Maybe pushed into solitude by life and staying there by choice?”

When my heart thumps in my chest and I take a shaky step back, his eyes soften even more.

“Sorry. I went too far. I apologize,” he tells me just as Mr. Arrogant returns.

“Haven’t lost my edge. That chick was just—”

Ten surgeries ago, he might have recognized me immediately.

“I was a sixteen-year-old little girl the last time you saw me,” I say with a dark smile. “I’m all grown up now. Want to play?”

Right now, he’s remembering just how weak I was as that horrified, terrified, sobbing little girl. He’s remembering how easily he overpowered me. His mind is playing tricks on him that he’s still the one in control, despite the precariously deadly situation.

“You took three turns,” I go on, staying poised and ready, but outwardly displaying a weakness I don’t truly have, allowing his mind to continue to revert back to that night ten years ago.

“That means three pounds of flesh over the next three days,” I go on.

But death won’t come too soon.

I don’t believe in mercy.

Three pounds of flesh will be extracted while he’s awake.

He’ll beg and plead.

He’ll pray to pass out.

But he will feel it all.

Just like we did

“The M.E. estimated that he was tortured for at least three days. He has parts of him that have been cut off, just like the others. Including the penis,”