29. Liliana
I ’m dumped back into that same awful cell.
Maybe I ruined it, maybe I should have played docile. I could have been so clever, pretending that I’d given in and when the moment was there, I would have gutted him just as I gutted Saul.
Only, I couldn’t do it.
I wouldn’t do it.
I’m not going to simper, take his cock, and pretend that I want it. I refuse to do that.
I wipe my face, wipe the disgusting remnants of the last few hours as best I can.
But Saul, fucking Saul.
I can’t believe he would do that. I can’t believe he was that vindicative. My eyes drop to my hands. The blood may have been washed away, but it still feels like it’s there, sticky, coagulating between my fingers, marring my skin.
I am a killer now.
I’m a murderer.
I don’t know how to reconcile that fact. I don’t know how to be at peace with it. Saul may have betrayed me, but that doesn’t make what I did okay, that doesn’t justify stabbing him over and over.
And why the fuck did I not just kill Magnus instead? I had the damn knife in my hand. I could have killed him, then killed myself before I had to face any repercussions. It would have been the perfect fuck you, the perfect ending.
I let out a frustrated scream, throwing my head back, clenching my fists so tightly. It feels like I’m losing my mind, it feels like I’m starting to crack. I know all about Stockholm syndrome, I know all about the ‘falling for your captor’ bullshit.
I don’t want to do it, I don’t want to break like this, to become everything Magnus plans, and yet, how can I fight this? How can I do anything to stop this?
My fists lash out, I slam them over and over into the wall. The pain helps. The pain focuses my mind.
I won’t give in. I refuse to give in. I’m better than that. I’m better than him. He can fuck my body, he can do whatever he wants to me physically, but I will not let him fuck with my mind.
I will not be that person.
With my teeth, I tear into the skin of my arm, biting at that same wound that Magnus inflicted, mangling it enough that it bleeds, and then I delve my fingers, spreading the blood further. My body trembles, my legs feel like they might collapse, but my hand is steady as I start drawing onto the wall, as I start covering it in words.
I hate him .
I hate him.
I hate him.
I don’t care how many times I have to repeat it. I don’t care how much of my blood it takes. I will not forget this fact, I will not give in.
I am not his plaything, I am not a toy. I am Ana Edwards. I am stronger than that. Better than that.
I will fight, and I will beat him the only way I can.
I have to fight. I have to.