The expected recoil never happens. The cracking explosion doesn’t sound throughout the cabin. My trusty old shotgun betrays me and jams. Braxton doesn’t so much as flinch.
He lunges. The impact knocks the gun clean from my aching grip, sending it clattering across the floorboards. He’s already moving, dead-set on the hallway, on getting to her. But his blind desperation gives me just enough time to intercept him.
He thinks he’s going to get to Ava? He’ll have to carve through me first.
“You perverted old man,” he snarls, spit flying. “You’ll never have her again. She’s mine.”
The word mine unleashes something wild in me.
He swings first. It’s messy, without control or experience. I duck, feeling the rush of air over my ear as I counter with a right hook. It clips his cheek, not enough to knock him off balance or slow him down. He’s a damn bull, barreling forward on rage alone.
It’s fine. I’ve spent years at the boxing gym down the street from my place back in the city. I harness my fury, feeding it to the monster inside.
I lower my stance and charge, forcing him step by step away from the hall, deeper into the kitchen, away frommyAva. I don’t know if she can hear everything going on out here. But I hope she stays put, safely tucked away at the back of the cabin.
The counter stops his retreat, and I finally get a grip on his jacket. Being this close, a foul smell wafts off the fabric. I ignore the scent, focusing on what’s important—my punch. It slams into his gut, and I bring my knee up, hard.
The crack of his nose shattering echoes through the kitchen. It’s a sickening crunch I’ve heard a few too many times. He reels, blood spraying wide across my leg. It buys me the second I need to grab the cast-iron pan conveniently sitting next to us on the counter.
I swing, but he rams his shoulder into my ribs, a brutal lineman’s hit. The world flips. My spine slams the floor, and all the air surrenders from my lungs in one violent burst.
Pain explodes through my skull, that old wound roaring back to life. My vision sputters around the edges, threatening to go. But sheer will to keep Ava safe has me moving. I roll, desperate for a lungful of air, to get back to my feet.
His weight crashes down on me like an avalanche, pinning me flat. My arms are trapped against my sides, caught beneath his legs. I thrash, but the angle is all wrong. He’s on top. A position I know better than to allow. He knows it. I know it.
His fingers clamp around my throat. The pressure is instant and merciless. The human equivalent of a boa constrictor hunting for its next meal. His thumbs dig in until fire spreads through my throat. I can’t breathe a whisp. Can’t swallow a drop. His eyes glitter with a sick glee as he watches me struggle.
I buck, twist, try to get a knee up into his back, anything to reverse our roles. He only tightens his hold, leaning all his goddamn weight against my trachea. My windpipe compresses, not strong enough to withstand the assault. Black dots burst in and out of focus, dancing along the edges of my vision.
Ava’s tear-stained face flashes through my mind. Her beautiful pale skin under these same deadly hands. The bruises he’ll no doubt leave. The fear he’ll feed on. The danger she’s in.
Rage skewers through the suffocating haze.
I wrench an arm free with a hoarse, animalistic sound and swing at his ribs. It’s weak, barely more than a playful tap on his side, but it’s something.
“Get off him!” Her voice slices through the chaos, a fierce warrior’s cry.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up at her. Not when her footsteps pound closer. Not when she crouches within his reach.
I hear a familiar click.
“Braxton!” she screams, voice cracking with emotion. “Look at me!”
Her desperation claws through the thickening darkness.
It’s the last thing I register before everything finally slips away.
TWENTY-ONE
AVA
Crimson blooms through the mangled mess of fabric and frayed skin. Braxton’s stare flashes to mine, a look of utter betrayal tinges his eyes, before his fingers slip free from around Scott’s throat, and his body slumps with a thud to the floor.
The shotgun slips through my fingers, clanking against the hardwoods, but the sound barely registers. A blaring song rings in my ears. From the shot or the reality of what I’ve just done, I don’t know. My mind races too fast to make that call.
Bile clogs the back of my throat, but I manage to keep anything from coming up. My knees buckle, almost taking me down. I stumble back on unsteady legs and hit the wall.
“No. No. No. No,” I chant, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. Burrowing my head in the small space, I squeeze my eyes shut.
