“You really think that sniveling creature can satisfy a woman? He can barely look me in the eye without pissing on the floor.”
I lunge forward and slam the snow globe into his balls.
He doubles over with a strangled scream. “You fucking bitch!”
I smash the globe over his exposed head. His hands fly up in self-defense, reminding me of how Brother Matthew cowered after I’d hit him with that poker. Violence is the only language monsters like him understand.
It was the moment I stopped being a victim and became a killer.
But Rochester doesn’t go down. He staggers, just like Brother Matthew did. I bring the globe down again, harder, and he groans. On the third blow, the glass cracks, spilling water over his head. On the fourth, it collapses. I drop the broken pieces and bolt for the door. The handle turns but it won’t budge.
Shit.
Shit.
SHIT.
“You’ll pay for that, you worthless whore,” snarls a voice from the shadows.
I spin around. Rochester straightens, his face twisting with rage.
Terror reaches into my ribcage and seizes my heart. My knees buckle and I stumble against the door. My hand lands on a chunk of broken timber.
“When I finish with you, you’ll be praying for death,” he roars.
He says that like every controlling bastard who tried to put a collar around my neck. Like Dad, who used scripture to keep me under his thumb. Like Brother Matthew, who subdued me with rape, fists, and the threat of keeping me barefoot and pregnant. Like Gil, who let them put a murder weapon into my hands and make me a killer.
Fuck that. I’d rather die than become another prisoner.
I straighten, my heart jackhammering, my fingers closing around the wood.
Rochester charges at me with a roar. I step forward and bring the timber down on his skull. It hits with a sickening crack, and he jerks, eyes going wide. The sound is beautiful. Wet and final.
He drops to his knees, blood streaming down his temple. I raise the wood, waiting for his next move. But his eyes go unfocused, and he reaches for his head wound like he can’t believe what’s happening.
I hit him again. For Rowland. For Adele. For the original Mrs. Fairfax. For every woman who died at his hands.
Rochester crashes face-first into the moldy boards and goes limp.
I rush to the door and yank the handle again. It’s jammed. Of course, it is. I watched the bastard lock it and pocket the key. Chest heaving, I whirl around, finding Rochester still sprawled face-down on the floor.
My heart thrashes against my ribs like a caged bird. He’s motionless as roadkill. Now’s the time to search him for the key, but what if this is a trap? But I don’t have anychoice, unless I want to crawl through broken glass. I edge toward him on trembling legs, my pulse hammering loud enough to drown out all sound.
Floorboards creak underfoot. Each step toward him feels like walking toward my own grave. But as I reach striking distance, his arm lashes out like a cobra.
Panic punches into my chest, stealing my breath. With a scream, I stumble back, and crash onto my ass. Pain shoots up my tailbone, making me hiss through my teeth. Then a hand wraps around my ankle like a steel shackle.
He drags me toward him. My stomach lurches. I kick back with my free leg, my heel connecting with his face in a satisfying crunch.
“You fucking bitch!” he roars, his grip loosening to grab his nose.
I scramble away on my hands and knees toward the table. My dress tears as I claw across the floor powered by desperation. Splinters dig into my palms, but I barely feel the sting.
Just as I reach the shelter, a metallic clink has me whirling around.
“I’m going to strangle you with this belt.” He snaps it between his hands. “Watch you fight for air. Keep you on the edge. Make you beg for death.”
He raises the belt and lashes it down like a whip. I stagger backward, my hand landing on something metallic and cold. The floor drops inward. I tumble backward into darkness with a silent scream.
