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“Of what? Of yourdate—Derek, in parenthesis, Engineer Dick?”
He gazes down at my phone, and he must have opened my text conversation with Engineer Dick Derek because he glances up, lips curled in scorn, to read my own text out loud.
“ ‘Fuck me like you hate me.’” He looks up. “Really?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Don’t need him getting the wrong idea.”
“No, I suppose not.” Luca types something on my phone and then tosses it aside. “I’ve done the polite thing and cancelled your date with Derek since you are otherwise engaged.”
He sits on the edge of the bed and leans forward, forehead almost touching mine.
“You know what you should consider, Lynch, next time you want someone to fuck you like they hate you?”
He reaches into his pocket. Cold metal glints in his hand as he flicks open the blade of my pocket knife. He stabs the knife down so suddenly I barely have a second to throw my thighs open. The blade sinks into the chair between my legs, stabbing right through the front of my skirt.
Luca’s scornful smirk widens.
“You should consider fucking someone whoactuallyhates you.”
25
Valentine
Willow
Luca drags the knifethrough my skirt, tearing a line down the middle until the knife is free and my skirt is cut all the way through.
Then he places the knife in his mouth, handle caught between his teeth, and drops to his knees in front of me to grab the two pieces of my skirt. He rends the fabric, tearing up past my stomach, my sternum. With one final yank, he rips it all the way up to the collar.
My ruined dress now hangs down the sides of my body like a cardigan, leaving the front of my body completely exposed.
A shiver runs through me. For the first time since arriving here, I feel something akin to fear.
Notquitefear. More like a hot rush of adrenaline sizzling through my bloodstream, making the small hairs on my armsstand on end under my sleeves. A deep tremor between my legs forces me to clench my thighs together. I lick my dry lips. I have no intention of ever being turned-on by Luca Fletcher-Lowe, but how easy is it for the body to conflate adrenaline and arousal?
Luca watches me, cold, dead eyes coolly appraising my body. He plucks the knife out from between his teeth and points the tip at my chest.
“This is how you dress for all your dates, Lynch?”
“Just because you live the life of a repressed pervert priest doesn’t mean I should.”
He lifts a corner of his mouth as he places the tip of my knife between my breasts. I catch my breath and hold it. Luca runs the knife tip up the valley of delicate skin up to my throat to rest it under my chin. He pushes lightly, forcing me to tilt my head slightly up, and he meets my gaze.
“You really thinkthisis the right time to be insulting me?”
“You’re not going to kill me,” I tell him. “It would spoil your fun too much.”
“You lack scope.” He twirls the knife under my chin, the tip of the knife digging deeper. “There are so many interesting things I could do with this knife without killing you.”
His eyes are cold and amused and dangerous. Luca Fletcher-Lowe is a narcissist and, I suspect, a psychopath. I don’t think he’s capable of normal human emotions. He doesn’t feel empathy, or affection, or regret, or shame, or fear. He seems to register pain via some sort of filter, which is why he’s able to enjoy it more than he cares to admit.
That’s nature. Nurture, though—nobody can escape that.
Nurture means that Luca, despite his psychopathic tendencies, is still a product of his upbringing. A frail, spoiled rich kid who’s never once had to get his hands dirty and now recoils at the mere thought of dirt under his fingernails.
“You’re not the man you think you are,” I whisper, pressing the full weight of my gaze into his. “You don’t have a fucking clue what to do with this knife.”
He tilts his head, as if considering my words. The knife comes away from my chin, and two droplets of blood fall to land on my thigh. With the tip of the knife, Luca pulls the tatter of my dress to one side, pushing it back over my shoulder to fall down my arm and pool in the crook of my elbow.
