Mikhail tilted his head, his grin widening. "Well, sweetie, you didn't answer me. How should I kill you?"
Anaya met his gaze, unfazed. Her lips curled into a smirk. "Surprise me."
For a second, Mikhail was silent. Then—laughter. Low at first, then rising into something almost joyful.
"You're either fearless or insane," he mused, stepping closer. His shadow stretched over her, swallowing her in darkness. "Which one is it?"
Anaya leaned against the cold wall, her chains clinking. "Maybe both."
Mikhail crouched beside her, reaching out. His fingers traced along her jawline—soft, almost tender. But the glint in his eyes? That was pure cruelty.
"Let's test that, shall we?"
He trailed his fingers lower, ghosting over Anaya's throat. He could feel her pulse—steady, unwavering. No trembling, no pleading. Interesting.
He chuckled, pulling back. "You're really not scared, huh?"
Anaya tilted her head. "Should I be?"
Mikhail's amusement deepened. "Most people beg. They cry, scream, bargain for their pathetic lives. But you…" He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "You're just sitting here, waiting."
Anaya exhaled slowly. "If you wanted me dead, I'd be dead already."
Silence.
Mikhail's grin faltered for the briefest moment before returning, sharper this time. Smart girl.
He stood up and stretched, as if bored. "Alright then, sweetheart. Since you're so calm, let's make this fun."
He walked over to a small wooden table, picking up a sleek, sharp knife. Turning it in his fingers, he spoke without looking at her.
"Here's the deal—either I carve a pretty little scar on you, or…" He finally met her gaze.
"Or I make one on you. How about it?" Anaya said, her voice light, almost teasing. Her innocent-looking eyes held a darkness that wasn't innocent at all.
Mikhail froze for a moment before letting out a slow, amused chuckle.
"You really are something else, aren't you, sweetheart?" He twirled the knife between his fingers, his eyes locked onto her. "Threatening me while chained up? That takes guts."
Anaya tilted her head, her lips curving into a sly smirk. "You were the one asking for fun, weren't you?"
Mikhail crouched down to her level again, his face inches from hers. His eyes gleamed with intrigue rather than anger. "Tell me, Anaya... have you ever held a knife before?"
Anaya didn't answer right away. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Have you ever met someone who enjoyed the sight of blood as much as you?"
For the first time, Mikhail's grin faltered—just for a fraction of a second.
Then, he laughed.
Low. Dark. Intrigued.
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I think I'm going to enjoy breaking you."
Anaya's smile didn't waver. "You can try."
Mikhail's grip on the knife tightened. He studied her, searching for cracks in that eerie calm. But there were none. Just those innocent-but-not-innocent eyes staring right back at him.
For the first time in a long time, he felt something unfamiliar crawl up his spine. Excitement? Or was it a warning?
A slow grin spread across his face. "You can try," he mocked, echoing her words. "Fine then, sweetheart. Let's play."
He suddenly flipped the knife, the handle facing her.
Anaya looked at him, then at the blade, her smirk never fading.
"You trust me with this?" she asked, her voice dripping with amusement.
Mikhail chuckled, his eyes gleaming with something almost predatory. "No, but I want to see what you'll do with it."
And with that, he dropped the knife into her lap.
The cold steel kissed her skin, and for the first time since waking up in this basement, Anaya's heart raced—not from fear. But from something much, much darker.
Anaya twirled the knife between her fingers, its cold steel glinting in the dim light. The weight felt unfamiliar yet thrilling in her grasp. She traced the tip along her palm absentmindedly, watching Mikhail with quiet amusement.
He stood before her, unbothered, a smirk dancing on his lips as if this were nothing but a game.
"Are you trying to kill me, sweetheart?" he asked, voice laced with mockery.
Anaya tilted her head, lips curling into a slow smile. Without a word, she pressed the blade against his chest, right over his heart.
Mikhail didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a soft chuckle. Then, in one swift motion, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward. Their bodies collided, her breath hitching as she found herself dangerously close.
The knife was still between them, its tip now digging into his skin. A thin red line blossomed on his shirt, but his dark eyes never wavered.
"Go on," he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. "Do it."
Anaya searched his face, waiting for a flicker of fear, a sign of hesitation. But there was nothing. Just amusement. Just confidence.
A slow, wicked grin spread across her lips. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
Mikhail's grip on her wrist tightened slightly, his smirk widening. "More than you can imagine."
For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them crackled with tension—a challenge, an unspoken dare.
Then, just as suddenly, Anaya sighed and pushed him away. The knife clattered to the floor, forgotten.
"This is boring," she muttered, stretching her arms lazily as if she had just woken up from a nap.
Mikhail chuckled softly, his amusement deepening. "I knew you wouldn't do it," he said, picking up the knife and rolling it between his fingers. "You enjoy the thrill, but you don't crave the kill."
Anaya met his gaze, her expression unreadable.
He stepped closer once again, pressing the knife back into her hand.
"Maybe next time," he murmured, his voice dripping with challenge.
Anaya glanced at the weapon, then back at him. Her fingers curled around the handle as a smirk tugged at her lips.
"We'll see."