Wake to Dream(24)

Self-loathing filled her, distaste for the submission she gave.

Standing from his chair, Max approached the couch to kneel down beside her, his shoulders shaking from soft laughter when Alice leaned away from his body. Meeting her gaze only for a moment, he turned his attention to her legs. His hands were hot against her skin as he unlocked the leg irons, the touch almost too much to bear on skin rubbed raw by chains.

Leaving her hands cuffed in front of her, Max grabbed Alice's arm to lift her to her feet. She wanted to shake away his touch, wanted to claw and bite like a rabid animal caged. The instinct to fight was a quivering beast inside her, only silenced and stilled when her eyes focused on the television screen.

Delilah. Weak, bound, and on display. How long had he kept her and how much had he broken her already?

There had to be another choice, a different avenue where they both could come out of this intact. They would never escape unscarred, but there was a chance they could escape with enough strength to survive.

Led back to the kitchen, Alice was directed to a barstool. "Sit. I'll cook tonight..."

Max leaned down, his warm breath rolled across her cheek on a cynical, mocking whisper. "...but only because you've already been through so much."

A gentle squeeze of her shoulder and he walked away, placing the center island between them.

Moving about the kitchen with the ease of a master chef, Max laid out ingredients on the counter. Unconcerned with what Alice might do, he placed a butcher's cleaver between them. She eyed the cleaver, her bound hands balling into fists in an attempt to resist reaching for it. It was so close and all she had to do was grab it.

"Tempting, isn't it?"

He glanced back at her, an arrogant tilt to his full lips. Wavy hair, black as a raven, hung loosely over one side of his face and concealed his scar. Alice swallowed down a knot in her throat, hating herself for thinking she'd be attracted to him in a different situation.

"The cleaver," he pointed out, tilting his chin in its direction. “It would be so easy to just grab it. To swing it in my direction."

He turned towards her fully and met her stare. "To kill me?"

Disgust rolled through her. "I wouldn't do that," she lied.

He grinned, a dimple indenting his cheek, the mark made darker by the shade of black stubble along his skin. "You're not that easy, Alice. Don't lie."

Wrapping his long, elegant fingers over the handle of the cleaver he picked it up off the counter, turning it in such a way that the light in the room flashed against the metallic blade. Spinning on his heel, he raised it shoulder height before bringing it down on the cutting board, embedding the blade into the wood.

The noise was a shock to Alice's already tense system, her entire body flinching as if that blade had been embedded into her body instead.

Max glanced at her from over his shoulder. "I hope you like your steak rare. Personally, I prefer when the meat is warm, but tender, easy to slice and chew, the blood running hot and thick against the tongue."

The color drained from Alice's face, her gorge rising until she had to fight to not heave onto the floor. Max grinned and returned his back to her as he grabbed a thick slab of beef to slap it down on the cutting board next to the cleaver.

Using the cleaver, Max chopped thick steaks from the slab of beef, the rhythmic sound disturbing Alice more than it should have. In an effort to distract herself, she asked, "Why did you say I'm not that easy?"

He glanced back at her from over his broad shoulder, a glimmer of some unspoken thought sparking in his eye. At first, he didn't respond beyond that momentary stare. His hand moved purposefully as he continued chopping, the veins in his forearm corded beneath his sunkissed skin.

"I knew the moment I saw you," he finally explained, refusing to look at her. Placing the cleaver down, he pulled a knife from a block to his right, vegetables from his left. The blade chopped as he spoke, adding an insidious warning to the tone of his voice.

"You're not a victim. Not entirely. The truth is in your eyes, your body language. One glance at you and I knew you've been fighting your entire life."

Captivated by the rhythmic chop, frozen in place as she watched his arm move with absolute precision, she asked, "How would you even know that?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, her gaze pulled from watching him to view the television screen seated in the corner of the room.

Max hadn't lied. Every television in every room was tuned to the cell where her sister was kept.

Delilah sat motionless on the bed where she was chained, her head fallen forward as helplessness weighed on her shoulders. The only consolation Alice had was that Delilah was seemingly safe inside that room. It was more than could be said for Alice. Even though she was left alone and scared, blinded by the hood that covered her head, at least Delilah wasn't forced to entertain their monster.

Not like Alice.

Clearing her throat of the emotion welling inside her, she added, "Besides, you're wrong. I'm not a fighter."

The chopping stopped, his right arm moving to place the knife on the counter to his side. His palms pressed against the black granite, but he didn't turn to look at her. "Am I?"

A long pause occurred between them, only broken when Max spoke again. "There are nightmares in your eyes, Alice, a bleak darkness that is obvious to any person who has experienced it firsthand."