Finally, I can’t stand it any longer. I hurl myself upon the last half of the sandwich, ramming it into my mouth as fast as I can, unable to stop myself even though I know the end result will likely be more vomiting and subsequent hunger.
The second half of the sandwich eaten, I pep-talk my fragile self. Even if it’s poisoned, you need sustenance. You need to eat or you’ll die. I brace myself against the wall and choke uncomfortably as fresh nausea rises in my chest, burning like acid. Keep it down, keep it down.
Finally, after what seems like forever, the urge to open my mouth and bring everything back up gradually lessens. My stomach still churns away, but the food stops trying to escape.
I sit there for what seems like hours, waiting. For what, I’m not sure.
Maybe for death.
And death returns eventually, his knife back in his hands. I slide up to my feet unsteadily, feeling fragile as a feather, like I might crumple if he breathes on me. He smiles as he watches me waver on my feet.
“Nice flowers,” I huff. “Did you think I was too stupid to realize they’re fucking poisonous?”
He ignores my words. “I was trying to be romantic, Julie. You’re my baby girl, aren’t you?” He’s playing with the blade in his hands, the same slim switchblade he stabbed into my thigh months ago, when he thought I was a girl called Sammi.
I shudder. “What did you put in the food?”
His smile turns to a look of irritation; a frown and a smirk all in one. “That won’t work, Julie. Distracting me. You should know that by now.”
I snort, the energy it takes to converse almost too much to bear. “You put something in it that made me sick. Why don’t you just kill me already?” I glance at the blade in his hand. “Aren’t you tired of this?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, just stares me down with those black eyes that remind me so painfully of other eyes. Jase. I push the thought of his beautiful face away. Because it hurts too much to even think of him.
I will never see him again.
I take a tentative step toward Dornan and his blade, my legs shaking with the sheer effort of trying to move limbs that are literally starving and wasting away.
He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t stop me. I guess he knows at this point that I can’t overpower him, can’t outsmart him, can’t get past him. There is nothing I can do to him that could cause him to worry.
I reach up slowly and curl my fingers around his fist, the one that clutches the switchblade.
“You could do it now. Slice my neck open.”
I don’t want to die. I’m not encouraging him to pull the proverbial trigger and splatter my brains on the wall out of any bravery or lack of regard for my life. It’s not about being brave.
I just want this to be over.
Amusement fills his face as he uses his free hand to peel my fingers from his fist.
“I’m not tired,” he says, chuckling. “Do you really think you’ve suffered enough?”
I think of when the suffering started, of the seven scars that are now gone from my flesh, of the burning and the agony and the sorrow of it all.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I do.”
“Well I disagree,” he says. “In fact, I think we’ve only just started.”
Anger wells up in my chest and I snap. “You’re poisoning me now?” I screech. “You’re fucking poisoning me?” I point emphatically at the bucket of puke in the corner. “You coward. Use your hands. Use your knife. Only a coward would poison his fucking prisoner.”
He reaches out and stabs my chest with his finger, making me step back until my back is up against the wall.
“I’ll tell you why you’re sick,” he says. “It’s not the sandwiches, baby girl. It’s the poison inside you. It’s the souls of my sons tearing you apart from the inside out.”
He grins, his words nonsensical but nevertheless a disturbing visual. I shudder as I imagine worms that look like Chad, Maxi and company crawling in my veins like sludgy syrup, black and toxic, burning through my veins until I’m nothing but a bleeding, infested corpse.
“Is that the sons I’ve already killed?” I snap, “Or the ones I’m still going to?”
His wide grin twitches, and suddenly, I’m so fucking over this dance that we’ve been doing for the past few weeks, so fucking tired of everything.
“If you’re going to poison me to death, you might as well just shoot me,” I say morosely, before I can stop myself. Jesus Christ! I want to slap my hand over my mouth, to shake myself by the shoulders. What’s wrong with me? I’m strong, I’m unbreakable, I’m vengeance personified - and yet I’m asking my enemy to just hurry up and shoot me already.