Get it the fuck together.
I scowl up at the ceiling as my current reality presses down on me.
I’m marryingBane.
I’m going to be sleeping with him. He’s made that clear.
Guilt slithers through me.
I mean, him being a moody, controlling asshat aside, he wasLark’s fiancé. That he would evenwantto sleep with me is…fucked.
I make a face in the darkness.
For fuck's sake, Lark and I were more than just friends. We were like sisters.
It's verging on Biblical.
I blow air through my lips and let myself sink back into the sheets. My eyes close and I exhale again, trying to let the pressure of everything melt away.
A sudden crash downstairs rips my eyeswideopen. I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering in my chest.
What thefuckwas that.
There's a rustling sound, like someone rummaging. My throat tightens, the hairs on the nape of my neck standing straight up as a chill whisks its way down my back. I glance at the side table, looking for my phone, then I remember.
It’s downstairs, on the kitchen table.
I mean, I have my laptop with me, but what am I going to do,emailfor help?
The sound comes again, footsteps. My head whips to the side, and I tense when my eyes land on the wooden rolling bar leaning in the corner.
I use the smooth, vaguely baseball-bat length cylindrical piece of wood to work out muscle knots.
It’s no gun, but it’s better than nothing.
I slowly and quietly slip my legs out from under the covers and stand. I tiptoe silently over to the rolling bar, wrap my fingers around it, and then brandish it like a club as I turn to the stairs down to the lower level.
More rustling downstairs.
My pulse skips. Adrenaline courses through me like hot mercury.
I take the stairs as quietly as I can, tiptoeing down with the rolling bar raised. I just need to reach my phone—or, if I can’t, I need to make it to the door.
Clammy wetness breaks out across my back. My hands tighten around the smooth length of wood, comforting in my grip, as I reach the ground floor. I turn quietly, heart pounding, eyes stabbing into the darkness.
The man comes out of nowhere.
With a scream, I whirl, yanking the wood back and swinging it as hard as I can toward him. He dodges it, whooshing past me like smoke as I spin. He charges again, and another bloodcurdling scream erupts from my throat as I take aim again at his head, as hard as I fucking can.
Glass explodes everywhere when the momentum of my home run attempt yanks me off my feet and I go slamming into the upended side table, toppling over it. I crash to the ground, crying out in pain when my hand hits shards of broken lamp. I whirl, heedless of the blood, a yell on my lips, brandishing the wood again.
The carriage house is still, and utterly quiet.
There’s no attacker.
No intruder.
No threat.
