I twist, unsurprised to find Bryce half crawling up my body, rushing to get me pinned. I flow with his momentum until I’m lying under him, and when he goes for my wrists, I grin, excited to practice the training RJ put me through over the last year.
Slamming my hips upwards, Bryce loses his balance, falling toward my face. I swipe my wrists down, breaking free of his grasp, turn my head so he doesn’t squash my face, then wrap my arms around him, even as my skin crawls doing it.
But it’s what has to be done.
Bryce yells, but I don’t listen, instead focusing on rolling us both so I’m on top, kneeing him in the groin. Then I dash for the stairs.
I must not have gotten a clean shot, though. His fingers grasp my ankle like a bear trap, hauling me down. A second later my face slams into the stairs, and I know this hit was a good one. Or a bad one, depending on how I’m looking at it. So bad. Definitely bad. I taste blood. He yanks me toward him, hands wrapping around my throat as I struggle, kicking out at him, trying to get a better nail at his nuts as the ceiling kaleidoscopes above me.
Not good.
The world shudders, shouts in the air as I slip to the edge of consciousness, nails scratching at his eyes with everything I have left, the stairs not giving me the leverage I need to do much of what I could.
Arms come into view, one dark and one light, trying to drag Bryce from me, but he holds on tighter, the sting of his nails around my neck barely registering as I lose the last of my vision, my lungs screaming, everything below my chin feeling compressed to the point of snapping, the blood in my skull pressing against my skin like it’s trying to break free.
I never thought I’d be intimate with the ridges of my trachea, but right now, I am.
When I next open my eyes, a hacking cough shaking me, I’m slumped at the bottom of the stairs, my head pounding, everything above my collarbones feeling weird. Walker has me cradled against him, RJ and Trips dragging a struggling, bloody Bryce toward the kitchen, while a dazed Jansen hovers halfway down the stairs.
Jansen leaps over the side of the railing, landing just clear of Bryce’s swinging leg, before rushing in and decking him in the nose, a crunch clear in the echoey entry. My brain still isn’t catching much in the way of words, my cough taking most of my focus, the feeling that my head is trying to explode occupying the rest, as Jansen shouts at him. Then he slides across the floor, stopping in front of my watery eyes.
Bryce is in the house. I should be terrified. But I feel perfectly safe surrounded by the two of them. I take the time I need to recover, Jansen rushing off to get me water and a roll of toilet paper for my inexplicably running nose.
I should be used to my body freaking out after almost dying, but maybe that’s not something people get used to. At least, I hope I never find out if there is a point where it’s normal.
Once I’ve recovered enough to walk, I force myself to the kitchen, Walker and Jansen flanking me. I need to be a part of whatever we decide to do next.
They’ve awkwardly tied Bryce to a folding chair with a length of extension cord, his hands lashed behind his back with one of the guy’s ties. It’s a clever use of what we’ve got. I hope it’s enough to hold him.
Now that I can hear again, I realize Bryce is busy spitting spiteful vitriol at me. I almost wish I still couldn’t hear. “Do we have duct tape?” I ask Jansen.
He shakes his head, but pulls off his undershirt, stuffing it into Bryce’s mouth.
“Thank you,” I say.
Bryce glares, testing the cords and finding himself fully contained.
“What now?” Walker says, gaze dark as he inspects my ex.
“Now we kill him,” Trips says simply.
No one objects. Bryce might, but we can’t hear him with Jansen’s shirt shoved in his mouth.
“But how?” I ask, knowing this plan will have to be foolproof. There are too many ties between him and me for me not to be a suspect.
Trips grips the counter with both hands. “This would have been simpler if we’d just let my father kill him.” He’s right. If our wedding night required a death, better this monster than my dad.
My brain goes back to that night, to Mattie running off with Bryce while my dad died in his place. He’s disgusting. Knowing what Mattie hasn’t been able to say, but likely happened, I march up to him, slapping him across the face. I wait for hissneer, then punch him in the gut, his groan bringing a smile to my face. “A real man teaches his woman to fight back, not to take every hit. It’s a pity it took me so long to figure that out. But then again, you do like children, so I can’t take all the blame.”
This seems to remind Trips of what happened, and he yanks Bryce backwards by the hair.
His eyes are crystalline as he stares down at the slug, and a strange prickle of pride bursts. This monster attacked me, ran off with his little sister, but Trips is still in control of his rage.
With one hand, Trips pinches Bryce’s nose, pressing his other palm across his mouth. A moment later, Bryce struggles, desperate for breath, and I feel nothing. When I rub my neck, though, annoyance flickers at the smears of blood that coat my fingers.
Let him see how much he likes not being able to breathe.
Jansen steps close, pulling me against his bare chest, Walker blinking a little too fast as Bryce’s struggles grow sluggish.
