This time every blow connects with intent.
And pain.
He catches me with a jab to the ribs. I return with a sweep that takes his legs. We hit the floor hard. Roll. Trade positions.
I’m on top for maybe three seconds before he reverses. Gets me in a hold that would make me tap any other day.
But today I don’t tap.
Today I let him tighten the pressure until spots dance in my vision.
“Tap,” he growls.
I don’t.
He releases. Shoves me away. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Everything.
Literally fucking everything.
I drag myself up. My shoulder screams. The thin skin there feels wrong. Wet.
“You want the truth?” I ask. My voice comes out bitter. “Fine. I never really wanted to be your friend.”
His eyes narrow. “What?”
“You were a means to an end. A way to get close to her.” I push every ounce of venom I can manufacture into the words. “You’re too poor tomatter otherwise. A fucking paramedic. Like I’d ever become best friends with a lowly, fucking paramedic who barely makes seventy grand a year. It’s laughable. You’re a parasite. A worm, compared to me.”
It’s a lie. A complete fucking lie.
But it works.
He charges. Lands a blow to my injured shoulder that tears through the healed tissue like a knife through raw meat.
I feel warmth spreads down my arm.
Blood.
Perfect.
Maybe he’ll kill me.
I lower my guard. Let him hit me again. And again.
Each impact is punishment I deserve. Penance for Vegas. For the private investigator. For befriending him. For dragging Jess and Ben into the woods.
For existing.
The bedroom door rattles as someone knocks.
“Marco?” Jess’s voice. Terrified. “What’s happening?”
Fuck!
I gather the last of my strength and slip out from under Ethan.
I lunge for the door and lock it before she can get inside.
