“I'm going to make it extra painful now. You've got it coming.”
He's disgusting. So fucking disgusting...
I scramble backward, my hands slipping against the spilled beer, my skin digging into glass. But my fingers close around something cold and solid.
The broken neck of the beer bottle.
That’s all I think about. Not the pain.
The glass bites into my palm as I grip the jagged edge, ignoring the sting, the warmth of my own blood mingling with the beer. Duvall steps forward, his shadow swallowing me whole, but this time, I don’t cower. I don’t wait.
I lunge.
The bottle plunges into his thigh.
His scream rips through the kitchen, raw and guttural. He staggers back, eyes wide, disbelieving. Blood wells around the glass, spilling dark over his jeans. His hand shoots down to the wound, fingers trembling as they brush the shard embedded in his flesh.
“You—” His voice is a broken snarl. “You little—”
I don’t let him finish.
I’m up in an instant, my body moving on pure survival. I grab the bottle lodged in his thigh, yank it free, and swing again. This time, I don’t aim for his leg. I go for histhroat.
The glass slices across his neck in a crimson arc.
A wet, gurgling sound fills the kitchen. Blood pours out, thick and dark, soaking his shirt, his hands, and the tile. He stumbles, one hand clutching the wound, the other reaching for me.
I shove him. Hard.
He stumbles back, crashes into the counter, then crumples to the floor.
The only sound left is the ragged rhythm of my breathing.
I don’t move. Don’t blink. I watch as he twitches once. Twice. Then stills.
The blood spreads, oozing between the cracks of the tile, staining my hands, my clothes.
“What…” I whisper, watching the crimson spread, inching toward my feet and soaking into my socks.
A distant sound registers in the haze of my mind.
Footsteps.
I snap my head up, my heart pounding in my chest.
Mark.
He's still outside, still puffing on that damn cigarette like nothing happened.
Like he didn’t just give me over to another man.
I should scream for him again. Should call the police. Should do something other than sit here, soaked in Duvall’s blood, clutching the broken bottle like a lifeline.
But I don’t move.
Because something inside me changes.
Slowly, I let go of the glass, letting it fall with a clatter onto the tile next to Duvall's body. My hands shake as I press them to the floor, trying to steady myself, trying to process the harsh, jagged truth slicing through my thoughts.
