She gasped, but not in time to pull away.
His fingers wrapped around her wrist. Tight. Firm. Not painful, not yet, but commanding in a way that said don’t you dare move.
Then his other hand lifted.
The screwdriver.
Still streaked with Moretti’s blood.
He didn’t threaten her with it, not overtly. He didn’t brandish it or make some dramatic gesture. That would have been easier.
Instead, he did something far worse.
He placed it gently, delicately, against the side of her neck.
The cool metal kissed her skin, and she forgot how to breathe.
Everything inside her stilled.
Not from the contact.
From what it meant.
One flick of his wrist. That’s all it would take. A single moment of decision.
She felt the tip nudge against the pulse in her throat, steady and rhythmic and horrifyingly
