The heel of my foot hits the cabinet.
There’s nowhere left to go.
Fear spikes, adrenaline flooding my veins. My body is screaming to move—duck, run, do literally anything—but he’s too fast. His hand shoots out, latching onto my wrist, squeezing so hard my fingers go numb. The spatula I’d been holding clatters to the floor like a useless little traitor. His other hand lands on my waist, rough and possessive.
I thrash, twisting, shoving at him, but I might as well be fighting a sentient brick wall. His breath is hot and reeking of beer against my face as he simply pins me down.
“Get off me!” I snarl, nails digging into his forearm.
He grunts, more annoyed rather than hurt.
“Always so feisty,” he murmurs, his grip tightening. “You turn me on, sweetheart.”
Panic claws up my throat as he shoves me back against the counter. The edge digs into my spine. His fingers push beneath the fabric of my shirt as he tries to rip the material off me.
I twist, bringing my knee up, but he’s ready for it—shifting his weight, pressing me down harder, making leverage impossible.
And then, he says it.
“You've always been feistier than that pussy of your husband.”
His voice is low. Mocking.
He continues.
“There’s so much anger in you… so much grit—”
I cut him off by slamming my forehead straight into his nose. Crunch.
He lets out an ungodly noise—somewhere between a swear and a grunt that terrifies me. But his grip loosens just enough for me to shove him with all my strength.
He crashes into the table, knocking over his beer bottle. It topples to the floor and shatters into tiny little pieces.
I don’t waste a second. I spin, bolting for the door.
Mark is right outside. My husband. My only ally.
We have our differences, but surely… he doesn’t mean for this to happen.
He’s going to help me.
If he just sees me—
If I can just—
A hand fists in my hair, yanking me back so hard I cry out. My scalp screams, my feet skid, and then—
Duvall slams me into the fridge with enough force to create bruises up my spine. My head cracks against the metal. Stars explode behind my eyes.
“You like it rough, huh?” he spits, blood dripping from his nose. “Don't worry. I'll give it to you.”
I gasp for breath, my vision swimming. The kitchen door is still open. The window above the sink gives a clear view of the backyard.
Mark stands outside, his back to me, a cigarette between his fingers.
“Mark,” I croak. Barely a whisper. He doesn’t turn.
The rain patters against the windowpane, the glass streaked with droplets. His shoulders are hunched, head tilted slightly downward, like he’s lost in thought. Like he doesn’t hear what’s happening inside.
