I try to close the door fast enough to feel the latch catch, but the panel stops halfway with a dull thud against resistance. A hand. Big. The wood bites into it, and still it doesn’t move.
I freeze, pulse a rapid drum in my chest, my neck.
The hand pushes back and the door slides open an inch, two. A seam of moonlight from the uncurtained slice of window cuts across the floor, and in that strip I see skin and hair and the pale line of a long, roped scar that drags from temple to jaw.
Scar. Dark hair. The briefing from earlier tonight rushes back into my mind.
Gabe Russo.
In my room.
The door pushes wider. The man fills the gap—bulk and heat and the sour smell of sweat and cheap cologne burn my nose. That scar splits his face like a map line. His eyes are flat.
“Hello, counselor,” he says softly, a little too pleased with himself. “Where’s the welcome?”
My mouth goes dry. My brain splits: noise, make noise; protect belly; eyes, throat, groin; move. Don’t freeze.
I move.
I grab the first thing my fingers land on inside the closet—a heavy wooden hanger—and whip it at his face. He jerks his head. It glances off his ear with a crack. He grunts, more surprised than hurt.
I slam the door into his arm with everything I have.
He snarls and shoves. The door jumps, slamming into me. The edge catches my shoulder so hard I see white. I roll with it, twist sideways so the panel skids across my back instead of my stomach, and fall to a knee, palms scraping carpet. The room is a smear of dark and lighter shapes turning into weapons if I can reach them.
“Feisty,” he murmurs from the dark. “They said that.” His hand leaps out of the black and finds my hair. He yanks.
I make a noise I don’t recognize and pivot with the pull, stepping into him instead of away. It brings me close enough to smell stale whiskey on his breath, and close enough to bring my thumb up for his eye. I don’t think, I just drive it at the softest thing I can find.
He jerks back, swears, pain sharp in his voice, and his grip slips. I wrench free, momentum slinging me sideways. My shin hits the bed frame; the pain is bright and useless. I grab the edge of the mattress and haul myself across it, lunging for the nightstand.
He grabs my foot and yanks me back. I claw at the sheets, desperate to get away, grab something. I can’t turn the lights on,but the lamp will make a mark. I lunge for it again, but his grip is too strong. I kick out with my loose foot and make contact with rock-hard muscle.
It doesn’t slow him down one bit. Instead, his hand clamps higher on my calf and yanks. Hard. I’m dragged off the mattress so fast the sheets burn under my palms; my hip thumps the frame, and I skid onto the rug.
He hauls again—no finesse, just brute pull—and my knees slam the floor. I twist to shield my stomach, elbows biting carpet, and he comes over me like a shadow falling.
I try to scream, and the back of his hand against my cheek sends me sprawling across the rug. Pain bursts bright on my cheekbone, and stars burst behind my eyes.
“Quiet, you little bitch,” he breathes, hot and sour. The other hand fishes for my wrists, trying to stack them above my head. I clamp my forearms tight to my ribs, curling around the bump, teeth scraping his skin through his grip.
He drags me by the shoulders toward the open space between bed and dresser, my heels shredding the rug’s weave. “Got you,” he grunts, low satisfaction. I buck hard, hips, shoulders, anything to loosen a grip like iron. He shifts his weight, knee pinning my thigh, forearm grinding across my collarbones.
The lamp base is just out of reach, a dark shape on the floor. I stretch for it anyway, and he feels the move, jerks me back by a fist in my hair. Pain needles my scalp; my eyes water. His mouthfinds my ear. “Be still, counselor,” he whispers, almost gentle, like a joke.
No way. No fucking way. I won’t go out like this, and I won’t let him kill my baby.
I bite. I drive my teeth into the side of his hand where it seals my mouth. He snarls and slams my shoulder to the floor, palm still clamped, but the pressure slips for a heartbeat, and I drag a ragged sound out of my throat. Not a scream—more a ripped-off sob. He smothers it with his forearm, shifting his grip so the crook of his elbow cinches my jaw.
Air gets thin and fast. I rake for his face with my free hand, find stubble and that raised rope of scar, and gouge. He jerks, curses, and his elbow eases a fraction—enough that I suck a scrap of air and keep clawing. He answers by shoving me flat, both wrists trapped in one hand now, wrenching them above my head. My shoulders protest. I know it’s my imagination, but I can feel the baby kicking, a flutter of panic that detonates me into something feral.
“Easy,” he mocks, breath hot. His other hand scrabbles down my side, testing for pockets, for a phone, a weapon. I buck again, roll my hip, try to make him choose between holding me and searching. He chooses holding. His grip tightens, and he drags me another foot across the rug toward the darker corner, away from the thin strip of moonlight, as if the dark is another weapon he can use against me.
I slam my heel into his shin. He grunts, weight tipping, and I twist with it, not to get free—he’s too strong—but to angle mybelly away, to keep his knee from pressing down where it must not. He notices, follows the motion, and laughs under his breath like he’s figured out my tells. “There she is,” he says softly, pleased. “Mama bear.”
His hand leaves my wrists for a split second to adjust, to get a better purchase. I jerk my arms down, get one wrist half-free before he snags it again and pins it to the floor. The loss of that inch feels like losing a mile. I drag air through my nose, mind flashing through everything I ever learned about self-defense.
I can’t make noise. I can still break things. I slam my head forward into his cheek, a motion he wasn’t expecting. The crack of bone on bone makes him swear viciously, and his grip goes ragged.
