Alya
He turned, catching my wrist in a fluid motion, as if he had been expecting it. As if he had been waiting. I stared into his eyes and, for a moment, I could feel the pulse of the room around us: the faint hum of the lights overhead, the creak of the wooden floorboards beneath my feet, the muted ticking of a distant clock counting the seconds we both held our breath.
His voice, when it came, was low. Controlled. Almost amused. "So that's how this is going to go."
He stepped in closer, the edge of the table pressing against my hip. I could smell the faint trace of cologne on him; something dark and woodsy, with tendrils of smoke curling through like a half-remembered sin. His shirt darkened beneath the point of my blade, a delicate line of blood unfurling like ink on parchment. But he didn't look at the wound. He only looked at me.
"I was wondering when you'd try." His words settled into the silence like stones dropped in still water. My pulse thudded loud in my ears, but I didn't back away. His grip tightened on my wrist, but instead of pressing harder, he pulled me toward him, the force shocking enough to make my head spin. I stumbled, the knife sliding away from his side as he turned to slam me into the table. The edge caught me hard across the spine, knocking the air from my lungs in a gasp that felt like drowning. I struggled, gasping, but his hands were everywhere—his fingers tightening around my jaw, forcing my head back, his grip on my throat just tight enough to make me feel the edge of suffocation. His breath was a warm, suffocating presence in my ear, and I could feel the weight of his body pinning me there, immobilized.
"Open your mouth," he said softly, the sound deceptively calm, edged with a darkness that couldn't be missed.
I barely registered the words before he was shoving something cold and slippery against my lips—the fish. The very same fish that had been sitting untouched on the plate, its glassy eyes still glaring at me, unblinking, as if it could understand what was about to happen. I tried to turn my face, to twist away, but his fingers dug into my jaw, forcing my mouth open.
"No," I gasped, the word barely escaping before he shoved the first piece past my lips.
"You tried to kill me," he said, not angry, not surprised. Just stating it, like the weather. "The least you can do is eat."
I gagged as it slid down my throat, the texture all wrong, too soft, too slippery. Another piece was shoved between my lips before I could protest, the taste lingering—salt, fish, and the bitter edge of his control. My vision blurred, my body starting to tremble, but I couldn't escape him, couldn't get away from the relentless force of him pushing more into my mouth.
"That's it. Chew." he whispered as I began to choke, the first signs of anaphylaxis making everything spin. My limbs began to tremble, the tremors small at first but then spreading, rippling beneath my skin like waves. My throat was closing. I could feel it. Each breath was a fight, shallow and ragged, my chest tightening with the slow, creeping grip of panic.
I tried to push him back, my hands scrambling against his chest, but he didn't budge. His grip remained steady on my jaw, forcing it open again. Another bite. Cold, wet. Forced between my lips. I gagged and coughed, tears blurring my vision. A noise escaped me—something between a gasp and a sob—but it didn't stop him. He watched me with detached intensity, like he was studying something. An experiment. A test.
I clawed at his hands, my vision dimming at the edges now. My tongue was swelling, my lips tingling and numb. The sensation was growing—faster than before. Too fast. My lungs weren't expanding fully anymore; I was gulping air and getting nothing.
He finally let go of my face, stepping back just enough to let me slump sideways against the table, my knees buckling under me. I hit the floor hard, cheek pressed against the cold tile, the taste of fish and bile clinging to the back of my throat.
My breath came in tiny wheezes, like trying to suck air through a pinhole. I could hear my pulse hammering in my ears, feel the sweat slick across my skin.
And above me, he crouched slowly, level with my face.
"You should've used the knife better," he murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from my cheek. "You had your chance."
My vision shimmered. The room swayed. But somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the suffocating haze creeping into my skull, something sharper stirred.
Not fear.
Refusal.
He was still crouched beside me, too close, too sure of himself. That smug quiet in his voice, the way he watched me unravel like it meant nothing—it lit something inside me. A dying ember flared.
I shifted slightly, just enough to mask my hand groping across the floor. The knife; it had fallen. Somewhere near. My fingers brushed metal.
There.
In one jerking, half-blind motion, I grabbed the handle, twisted my body, and swung. Not clean. Not aimed. But wild—desperate. The blade sliced across something—his forearm, maybe his shoulder—I couldn't see clearly, but I felt the resistance, the way his weight shifted back, the hiss of breath between his teeth.
The impact was weak, but it made him flinch—a split-second of surprise before he regained his composure.
"Damn you…" I rasped, my voice a hoarse whisper, but the fire in my chest was real. "I won't—"
The words were cut off by a painful cough, my body shuddering with the effort, but I didn't stop. Not until I felt his hand grab my throat again, lifting me slightly off the ground, his fingers squeezing tighter this time, cutting off what little air I had left.
His gaze flickered, just for a moment, to the rising swell of my face—the blood already bruising my lips, my eyes watering with the struggle. He could see it, the fight in me, and that sick, calculating look deepened in his eyes.
"Enough," he muttered, just before my chest caved in, and my body gave way. The light in the room fractured, the edges blurring as everything around me began to melt into a dark haze.
I fought to stay conscious, but the world felt as if it were spinning faster than I could keep up with. The last thing I saw was his face before the darkness closed in, pulling me under.