Thick. Stale. Tobacco and sweat. My eyes snap open.
Henry.
He’s crouched beside the bed, leaning over me, one hand grazing the curve of my waist, his other braced beside my head. His eyes are locked on mine, wide and hungry in the half-light.
I jerk backward with a cry, slamming my shoulder into the wall. “Get off me!” I scream.
He smiles. That awful, twisted smile.
“Relax,” he mutters, breath hot against my neck. “I figured you could use a little comfort. That’s what you’re good at, right?”
“Don’t touch me!” I shove him hard, but the chain on my ankle limits the movement. He barely rocks back an inch.
“I saiddon’t touch me!” I scream again, louder this time.
My voice breaks.
His expression hardens.
“You weren’t such a little saint withhim,were you?” he spits. “Don’t act like you don’t like it rough. You’re just another bitch who thinks she’s better than she is.”
I thrash, clawing at his arm, but he grabs both my wrists and pins them to the mattress.
“I’ve seen the way you look at him,” he growls. “All soft and submissive. Guess what, sweetheart? I can make you do the same. You’ll learn.”
He yanks at what’s left of the buttons of my blouse, the fabric tearing beneath his fingers.
“No—NO!” I cry, struggling violently.
His hands go to his belt. The metal clinks.
And then— A deafening crack.
Henry jerks.
His weight crashes down on top of me, sudden and heavy. I scream, panic overtaking pain.
Warmth seeps across my stomach.
Blood. His blood.
I shove him off me with every ounce of strength I have. He slumps sideways, his eyes still open but blank, red blooming across his chest.
I scramble up, gasping, trembling—too shocked to process.
And that’s when I see the figure in the doorway.
George. Gun still raised. Smoke curling from the barrel.
His face is unreadable. Calm. Almost cold.
I shrink back, eyes locked on the weapon.
“George,” I whisper, voice shaking, throat raw. “Wha… what did you do?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps into the room, the gun still pointed in my direction.
