Alya
"Tell me clearly," I said, my voice steadier than it had any right to be, "What use have you got from me?"
Just keep your spine straight. Keep your eyes up. Don't let the world tilt. Don't let your knees give out. Please don't faint again. This body of mine—this betrayal of a vessel. It refused to hold me up when I needed it the most. The room tilted slightly, then stilled again, like it was teasing me, daring me to let go.
This was getting bothersome. Infuriating.
What a word for it.
But beneath that tired sarcasm was something else, darker and heavier: a promise to myself. The next time I wake up in some strange place, unsure who had hands on my fate—I want it to be because I chose it. First thing I do when I'm out of this man's shadow is check myself into a hospital, and not because I'm weak, but because I'm human. And this body—this body is screaming at me that it's failing. I've never fainted this much in my entire life.
Something's wrong. Something inside me is unraveling. And I'd rather die than let him use whatever's left of me for his own end. If he kills me, fine. At least that'll be the last time someone puts their hands on me without asking. At least it'll be over.
But he better be damn sure he gets what he wants before I go. Because I'm not going quietly.
I met his eyes again.
"If you're going to kill me, get on with it. If not, get the fuck out of my way."
"I don't know," he finally said, voice casual, dry as dust. "Haven't figured out if you're a liability or a really inconvenient asset yet. Either way, you're here. So… congratulations."
I stared at him. Congratulations.
God, I hated him.
"I'll make it easy for you," I muttered. "I'm not your anything. I'm not leverage. I'm not bait. I'm not your broken toy to patch up and play with later."
His smirk deepened, like he was impressed I could still bark when barely able to stand. Curiosity. Like he'd just watched a dying animal bare its teeth and thought, hm, maybe it's got some fight left after all.
He raised an eyebrow. "Mm. Could've fooled me, the way you keep falling apart in front of me."
"Fuck you."
"You're not very good at gratitude, are you?" he asked. "I drag your half-dead body out of a slaughterhouse, and this is what I get? Scowling and dramatic declarations?"
I laughed. "You think dragging someone out of a fire makes you a hero?"
He rolled his eyes and pushed off the doorframe with a little sigh, like I was a particularly annoying chore he couldn't put off any longer. Fuck this. The moment his weight lifted off the doorframe, I let my gaze drop to the splintered shape among the scattered debris on the floor: one jagged shard of porcelain from the vase I'd shattered moments ago.
It was long enough. Sharp enough. I crouched, as casually as someone trembling on the verge of collapse could manage, and closed my fingers around the piece. It bit into my palm immediately, the edge pressing a thin, stinging line into my skin — and good.
It made things clearer. More solid. Pain always did.
The room tilted again as I stood, slower this time, blood singing in my ears like some cruel lullaby. My stomach churned, my head swam.
He had his back to me, halfway through some muttered, irritated complaint, probably about my attitude. He was always talking, wasn't he? Always filling the air with that smug, dry-as-bone voice like none of this mattered to him. Like anything mattered.
And I was so goddamn tired.
I lifted the shard, felt its weight, insignificant, but in my hands, it might as well have been a sword. I raised it to my throat, pressing the tip just beneath my jaw, right where the skin was thinnest. The sting was immediate, a bead of warmth slicking down my neck.
Both of them stiffened. I saw the shift in his posture, the sudden precision of his muscles as his head tilted fractionally to the side.
"Cute," he muttered, voice flat, but the sarcasm didn't land the same way this time, his steps flattering. "What is this supposed to imply exactly?"
My chest rose and fell, every breath feeling like it might be my last, but I met his gaze when he finally turned.
"I'm not yours," I said, and my voice didn't crack. "Not your asset. Not your liability. Not your anything. If you want me breathing, it'll be because I decide to keep breathing. And if you don't, well —" I pressed the shard a little harder against my skin. A bead of warmth bloomed beneath it. "I'll save you the trouble."
For the first time since this started, his expression cracked. It wasn't fear. James Carrizo didn't seem like a man who bothered with fear. But something else flickered there — a tension, a flash of teeth behind that smirk, a stormcloud shadow in his gaze. I saw it.
And it gave me just enough courage to take a breath. I meant to hold it there. Meant to give him a chance to decide if I was worth the risk.
But the second I shifted my grip, intending to move the shard just a fraction more—