THE HAIRPIN

TATIANA

I wait until his footsteps completely disappear down the hall. Then I drop to my knees beside the bed and start feeling around in the carpet for the broken hairpin I dropped earlier in my rage. My fingers finally close around it. The metal feels cold and pointless in my palm.

I jam the jagged end into the lock anyway. Twist left. Twist right. The pin snaps with this tiny, clean sound that makes me think of every stupid gothic novel where the heroine realizes too late that the house itself is the real trap.

I stare at the broken half in my hand. Of course it breaks. Real life doesn’t hand you convenient skeleton keys or secret passages.

“Brilliant,” I mutter to the empty room. “Absolutely brilliant. Next I’ll try charming the hinges with interpretive dance.”

I kick the bedpost. Pain shoots up my toe. I kick it again, harder, because at least this pain has a clear cause and a clear end.

Then the lock clicks from the outside.

My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out. I scramble backward and press myself flat against the wall, the broken pin hidden tight in my fist, the sharp end digging into my palm.

Kain steps in with another tray. His eyes find me right away.

“Don’t,” he says, flat as ever.

I lunge anyway. The pin aims straight for the side of his neck, right at that pulsing artery I can see under his skin. He block it with his hand. The one reaching for me. The jagged metal drove into the soft flesh between his thumb and index finger.

The tray clatters to the floor between us.

His hand jerks back, blood welling up immediately. The tray clatters to the floor. Soup splashes my ankles. Thank God the food isn’t hot enough to burn me.

I don't wait. I shove past him into the hallway.

Freedom.

The front door is maybe twenty feet away. I run. My bare feet slap the cold stone. I can see the handle. I can finally see my Julian. He's probably losing his mind right now. Sweet, steady Julian. He must be so worried.

Kain's arm hooks around my waist and lifts me off the ground.

"No!" I scream, kicking, clawing at whatever my hand touched. "Let me go!"

He doesn't answer. He carries me back into the room effortlessly and slams the door.

He drops me on the mattress. I scramble up immediately and run back to the door, breathing hard. My knee bleeding from where I scraped it on the doorframe.

He catches my wrist in mid-air, then the other one. In one smooth move he pins both my hands above my head against the wall. Blood drips from his wound onto the floor. He doesn't seem to care. His body presses close and I can feel the steady thump of his heart through his shirt. Mine is hammering like it wants to escape.

“You can’t hurt me,” he says.

I laugh once and let the silence stretch. Let him feel how fast my pulse is racing against his grip. Then I say it:

“Comfortable, brother? Should I call you daddy instead?" I try my best to look disgustingly seductive, my tongue out, licking my dry lips. I may not have experience but my books taught me enough of the basics and I put it to use. Heavily.

His jaw tightens. I see the muscle jump under the skin. He doesn’t step back.

Since my plan to disgust him did not work I try another.

“You know, Aunt Lana.” I smile coldly, and continue. “She’ll be rolling in her grave knowing her son murdered his father in cold blood and is currently molesting his sister. How far off the wagon did you fall.”

His grip loosens just a fraction. A tiny bit of space opens between us and I feel the loss of his warmth immediately.

“You know nothing about My mother,” he says. His voice has gone completely deadly.