In my defense, the shards are invisible in the puddle of darkness beneath the window.
And I’m in a hurry.
“Fuck!”
I fall to the side, my hip crashing into a side table, thankfully pushing it aside before my head could crack on the corner.
Pain shoots through the cut just below the ball of my foot.
Glass shatters somewhere behind me.
My lips clamp shut over another howl of pain as I stare across the room. Kai’s arm slithers over the windowsill like a python, rivulets of shadow-black blood fanning the back of his hand as he fumbles for the latch.
Ha, ha,loser. That shit’s not going to?—
The latch squeals like a stuck pig when he forces it open.
Fuck!
Gritting my teeth, I try to ignore the sinister throbbing in my foot as I hurriedly crawl toward the kitchen on all fours.
A hinge in the window squeaks as Kai shoves it open, but any further sounds are dampened by the rain relentlessly drumming on the roof.
There’s a small island by the breakfast nook. I detour around it and slip behind them, hoping Kai doesn’t spot me. The spotlight illuminates a large swathe of the cabin where it floods in through the window I broke.
When I peek around the edge of the counter, I see Kai standing in that orange light—so brazen, my body locks up in fear.
His black sweatpants and hoodie cling wetly to him, his usually messy hair plastered down on his forehead and around his ears.
Blood drips from his hand down to the floor as he slowly scans the cabin. The way he holds himself is so familiar. Fisted hands, hunched shoulders, bowed head.
I duck back behind the counter when he whips his head in my direction, like he sensed exactly where I was.
Maybe he can smell the blood oozing out of me.
I inch along the floor, back pressed to the counter, my eyes fixed on the closest drawer. There’s got to be something in there I can use to defend myself with.
A fork. A steak knife. Even a fucking cheese grater will do.
“At least we’re out of the rain,” Kai says, and I swear there’s a laugh at the edges of his voice. “And no Rooke to tell us we’re gonna catch fucking pneumonia.”
His bare, wet feet make soft slapping sounds as he moves his big body over the wooden floorboards. My fingertips brush a drawer handle, and I slowly ease it open before sliding my hand up, over the lip.
Folded fabric, probably dish towels.
Fucking useless. Well, I guess he could use it to mop up the blood after he slits my throat.
Violence hangs in the air, and it reminds me of the chemical stench of meth after Uncle Lenny would heat a serving on his tinfoil.
That’s when I would get the fuck out of the house and not come back until it became equally dangerous to be outside in the street.
Midnight, usually.
There’s a clock on the wall behind me. Only now, in the charged hush as Kai stalks across the cabin, do I hear the second hand.
Tick.
Tick.
