Breaking Point Read Online Free PDF Page A

still wary. I’m still in extreme danger, but his fist is relaxing just a little.
    “Thought I was.”
    Breath.
    “Saved.”
    Breath.
    “Rescued.”
    Breath.
    “Just for a second.”
    Breath.
    “You were being nice.”
    Breath.
    “Thought I was rescued.” My voice catches on that last word, and why not? It’s true, in its way, and devastating. The emotion is real, and the tears flow some more; his face is hard to make out, but it looks very cold and very calculating. He’s processing, seeing if what I’ve said fits what he saw, turning it over carefully and shit this guy is smart, and sharp, and so, so dangerous.
    I hang my head and cry. I don’t look up. I wait, but I also grieve, and the grief is real because at best, this man has already irrevocably changed me, and will change me further before our time together passes. That which doesn't kill me makes me older. My tears run down my nose, and then drip down into my lap. I open my eyes, and that’s when I see my still gloved hands, lying on my lap, palms up.
    He’s untied my arms.
    I try hard to hold onto the grief, but that S.O.B. hope is back, trampling it. Thank God for the pain. My sobbing slows but doesn’t stop. That’s okay, maybe. My head is down.
    His hand steals under my chin and gently, but firmly, raises my head. I snot and drool and cry and let my eyes meet him. I take in his face. The rage has dimmed again, but I discover it’s not something you can un-see, exactly - it’s still there, and he’s clearly decided that it will get full and free expression. But not just yet. Please, God, not yet.
    “All right. I’m going to go and get cleaned up. Tooled up too. The door locks from the other side, so I advise you not to waste your energy. I’ll shower, I’ll change, I’ll get my things, and then we’ll get started. OK?”
    “Please.”
    Breath.
    “Don’t.”
    “I read the anticipation is a big part of it. Makes sense if you think about it. But save your strength, because you will need it. And one more thing…” His hand shoots out towards my arm, and I cry out and shy away, reflexively, before I realise that he’s not grabbed or hit me, merely made the gesture. Made the point. “…however bad you think things are, however much I put you through, you need to understand that I can always make it worse. I could just keep squeezing your arm until you pass out; wake you up, rinse, repeat. We could do that for days.”
    He gives me a second or two to think about it. I flashback to that explosion of pain and my mind just fucking recoils. I think I’d rather die than feel that again. He leans in close enough to kiss. He is deadly earnest, remorseless. I feel the force of his personality, wielded like a blunt instrument, trying to bludgeon my will to his.
    “It. Can. Always. Get. Worse. And fuck with me in any way and it will, fast. Do you doubt?”
    If it wasn’t for my vibrating trouser pocket, it might even work. That fucking lifeline - it’s just enough to keep my head straight. This is all bullshit. It will keep getting worse, no matter what. Yes. But it’ll get worse quicker if he knows you know. I have no doubt.
    “No.” Utter sincerity.
    He reads it and smiles. The fire doesn’t entirely leave his eyes though. I don’t think it will, until this ends.
    “OK then. I’ll leave you with your thoughts.” He gets up and walks out of my field of vision. “See you soon.”
    Three footsteps and a door slams shut. Wolfmother plays. ‘Love Train.’ I am alone with my thoughts. And my vibrating pocket. Exhale.
    CHAPTER 7
     
    That may have been a mistake. I have a job of work to do now. Thanks to a broken arm, a full stomach and an overconfident armchair-psychologist sociopath, I have a legitimate shot at getting out of this. It is not going to be easy, but fuck me, I’m going to give it the old college try. But first I need to make sure this isn’t a setup, and he‘s not going to come bouncing back in like some satanic