Too low.
“You should have just let him fuck you, Skye. Would it be really so bad? Would it be worse than me killing you?”
His fingers squeeze harder. My vision blurs at the edges.
“Because now I have to kill you, honey,” he purrs, like he’s doing me some kind of favor. “I can’t be tied to Duvall’s murder.”
I thrash, kicking out, but he’s prepared. His body presses into mine, pinning me between him and the counter, keeping me still as the air fights to leave my lungs.
I try to breathe.
I can’t.
I can’t.
He's too strong.
“You're a loose end. I know I won’t be able to shut you up, not with that righteous mouth of yours,” he murmurs. “You’ll go to the cops. You’ll ruin everything. And I can’t have that.”
Black spots bloom across my vision, creeping in from the corners, distorting the world. My hands grow weak, my legs trembling beneath me. A dull, distant panic claws at my mind, but it’s buried under something colder. Something worse.
He's never loved me. I was never loved.
“But this is good, Skye,” he continues, lost in the violence and his fucked-up dreams of grandeur. There's no grandeur here. Only ugliness. “I'll tell them you both ran away, you see. Duvall will take the blame for the money theft. And you, for seducing him.”
A slow, creeping numbness takes over my limbs. I blink, once, twice, and the world shifts, my mind slipping, floating, fading—
No.
No.
Not like this.
A guttural noise rips from my throat—a raw, desperate sound. I summon everything I have left, every last ounce of strength, and twist my body to the side, just enough.
He stops me before I can grab the knife. But his grip falters.
Air rushes back into my lungs in a burning, ragged gasp, and before he can recover, I push off the counter and slam my knee into his stomach.
Mark stumbles back, clutching his face. Blood seeps through his fingers, dripping onto the floor, mixing with the mess already there.
I don’t give him time to recover.
I turn and run.
My feet slide on the tile, but I push forward, sprinting toward the door. My lungs burn, my throat raw and bruised, but I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
I hear him behind me—the sound of his heavy footsteps, the sharp intake of breath as he moves. He’s fast. Faster than I remember.
But I’m faster.
The front door is within reach.
One more step.
One more second.
