And what’s left in its wake is somethingolder.
Somethingcolder.
Something that hasfangs.
Brandon’s boots crunch through the debris field that used to be my living room. “Now then,” he says, slightly winded from the exertion of destroying everything I love, “time to deal with the blind bitch who started all this.”
I keep still, eyes closed, waiting.Waiting.
“Aleksei said to keep you alive until the baby comes,” he remarks with a hideous little giggle. “But he didn’t say anything about keeping youcomfortable. And there are so many ways to hurt someone without killing them.” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, like he’s sharing a secret. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about this moment. Toplan.”
I stay silent.Let him talk.Every word he speaks tells me exactly where his mouth is. Where his chest is. Where his throat is.
His footsteps stop beside me. “Look at you,” he sneers. “All that fire, justgone. Snuffed out.”
When his hand fists in my hair and yanks, I don’t resist. I let my body go boneless as he drags me up like a rag doll.
“Please,” I whimper. “Please, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything…”
“Oh,now,she begs?” He pulls me closer, until his breath fogs hot against my face. “How hypocritical. ‘Cry me a river,’ wasn’t that what you said?”
I let out a sob. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me anymore.”
“Hey, asshole!” comes an unexpected voice.
We both turn toward Sage’s shout. As we do, there’s a smack of impact and Brandon’s head snaps sideways. Something hard—a remote, maybe—glances off his temple.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” Sage roars.
Brandon’s grip in my hair loosens. Just a fraction. A heartbeat.
But a heartbeat is all I need.
Thank you, I think as I move.Thank you, Sage. Thank you.
My hand, the one that’s been tucked behind my back, rises up in a fist closed around the huge shard of glass I’ve been palming since I hit the coffee table. Knowing I’ll die if I miss, I drive the makeshift blade into the soft meat of his inner thigh, where the femoral artery pulses fat and vulnerable beneath the skin.
Brandon screams. It’s a beautiful sound. High and shocked andafraid.
I twist the glass and yank it free, feeling the hot gush of blood coat my fingers.
He doesn’t go down right away. Cockroaches like Brandon never die easy. Instead, we crash to the floor together, him on top, driving the air from my lungs. More of the broken glass shreds me anew, like it hasn’t done enough of that already. The wet splash of his blood spraying across my face paints me in the evidence of his dying.
But he’s not dead yet.
And he might still take me with him.
His fingers claw at my throat. I drive my elbow into his windpipe. He gags, loosens, and I knee him in the groin. We roll again, and now, I’m on top, straddling his chest, my bloody hands finding his face.
My thumbs find his eye sockets. My teeth find the meat of his shoulder. My fingernails carve trenches down his cheeks while his blood soaks through my clothes.
It’s a race to see who Death will claim first. My airway is collapsing under his grip. I’m swatting at his wrists, but his blood makes everything slick and impossible, and the strength is leaching out of me with every second I can’t breathe.
My consciousness starts to narrow. White spots bloom in the field of black. The edges of everything curl inward like burning paper.
My hand scrabbles across the floor, desperate, searching for anything?—
And closes around something familiar.
