But he must. Hemust.
“Mark!” I try again, louder. “Help me!”
He turns.
For a split second, our eyes meet through the window.
He sees me. My tear-streaked face. Duvall’s hand still fisted in my hair. My shaking limbs.
His expression doesn't change.
No shock. No fury. No guilt.
Just… nothing.
And then, without a word, he turns back around.
My world shatters.
Duvall chuckles, low and smug, his breath fanning against my cheek.
“Told you,” he murmurs. “Ain’t nobody coming for you. I've got you all to myself.”
A sound catches in my throat.
Is this it? Is this what I mean to him?
Am I truly… alone?
Duvall’s hand lands on my hip, fingers digging into my flesh. They knead and bruise and twist.
Something inside me snaps.
My hand shoots out, grabbing the nearest thing—the salt shaker—and I hurl it into Duvall's face with all the strength I have left. He yells, cursing as the salt stings his eyes, his grip loosening.
I don’t hesitate.
I twist, wrenching out of his hold, and my fingers finally close around something solid.
The cast iron pan.
I swing it.
The impact shudders through my arms as the pan smashes into the side of his head with a sickening thunk. Duvall staggers back, his eyes closing for a split second. But then he opens them back again and looks me straight in the eye.
“Oh, you bitch,” he grinds out.
I try to take advantage of the opening. I try to hit him again, to do more than just stun him—but he’s faster. His hand shoots out, catching my wrist mid-swing. The pan clatters to the floor, and he’s on me in a second.
He twists my arm behind my back, and his other hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back until my neck screams in protest.
But I still have one hand free.
I don’t think.
I claw at his face, my nails raking across his cheek, catching on the split skin of his nose. He curses, shoving me so hard I crash to the floor. My elbow slams against the tile, a sharp burst of pain, but I barely notice it.
He looms over me, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand.
