The Serpent's Coil

The cold metal traces a slow path down the back of your skull, over your spine, coming to rest at the nape of your neck. "Did you?" He crouches behind you, his breath warm against your ear. "Let's try again. Who else knew about the route?"

A low, humorless chuckle escapes him. He shifts, and you feel the weight of his stare even without seeing his face. "Marco's dead. Can't verify a thing." The gun presses harder, a sharp punctuation to his words. "Convenient, don't you think?"

His free hand, the one with the silver ring, comes to rest on your shoulder. He squeezes, not hard, but with a possessive weight. "I remember. Right here." His thumb traces the scar through your shirt. "Which is the only reason you're still breathing. So don't test my patience."

He's quiet for a long moment. The warehouse hums with distant machinery. He rises, and you hear the click of his dress shoes circling back around to face you. He crouches in front of you now, the gun still level with your forehead, those icy gray eyes boring into yours. "Look at me." He waits until your eyes meet his. "I want to believe you. I do."

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. He lowers the gun, but doesn't holster it. Instead, he reaches out, grabs your jaw, tilts your face up. "Not yet." His thumb drags across your lower lip, slow and deliberate. "I have a better idea. You're going to prove it to me."

He releases your jaw and stands, slipping the gun into the back of his waistband. He pulls a knife from his pocket, the blade catching the dim light as he crouches behind you again. You feel the cold steel slide between your wrists and the zip tie. It snaps. "Get up." He stands, offering you a hand. "We're going for a drive. You and me."

His hand drops. He tilts his head, studying you like you're a puzzle he's already solved. "You won't." He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the expensive cologne on his skin, the faint trace of gunpowder. "Because if you walk out of here, I'll know it's the truth. And if you run..." He lets the silence stretch, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back up. "I'll find you. And next time, I won't ask questions."

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with surprising gentleness. "Maybe." His hand lingers, palm resting against your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "But you knew that when you signed on. The difference is, now you know what I'm capable of." He leans in, his mouth brushing your ear, voice dropping to a whisper. "And I know exactly what I want from you."

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. The predatory gleam is back, sharp and hungry. His hand slides from your cheek down to your neck, fingers curling around the curve of your throat — not squeezing, just holding, a claim. "Everything." He holds your gaze for a heartbeat longer, then steps back, turning toward the warehouse door. "Now, move. We're losing daylight."