I shrank and covered my face.
Thud!
No pain followed the sound.
My arms slowly fell away, the axe buried in the floor to the left of me.
He was staring, waiting for me to realize he had not killed me.
“I can appreciate a good fight. You know, I thought you wereonly an underhanded type of woman. It’s good to know that you can strike too.” He stepped past and crouched beside my head. When he knelt down, he placed his hand on my forehead, wiping some blood from the cut he created when his head met mine.
“That was juvenile.” I glared up at him.
He licked the blood off his finger. “Worth the headache.” He moaned. “Silas, one. Alina, zed.” He made a zero shape with his fingers.
The next daywas no different.
I bounded down the hall, slipping on the edge of the rug before picking up my pace again.
Silas was not too far behind, his boots smacking against the creaking wood.
I snatched a metal-tipped pen when passing a writing desk, the only item I could use as a weapon on such short notice. It was better than having to use my fists.
The heels of my walking shoes hit hard against the floor. It was too late to be quiet. We had passed the silent portion of our chase hours ago. This was the longest I had been able to elude him so far. I skipped several steps on the stairs to get down to the second floor.
Suddenly, there was a tight grip on my hair, pulling at my scalp.
Oh no?—
Silas wrapped my braid around his palm and drew back hard.
I screamed as my back smacked into his chest.
“Silas, two. Alina, z?—”
“One!” I shouted, and shanked the tip of the pen into his thigh, relieving the pressure from my scalp.
I was unsure if the following animalistic noise was from pain or arousal. I would rather not dwell on it.
Jumping down more steps and hopping over the railing, I made for the back door leading to the garden. I was halfway across the grass to the greenhouse before a force toppled me to the ground.
We rolled a few meters from the impact, tangling with each other. Scratching, biting, and gripping.
The only pause we had was when I stuck a small, rusty potting shovel against his neck.
The only thing he could do was keep me in place by straddling me.
Finally, a stalemate.
Our breaths could be seen in the afternoon air, mingling in a singular puff of vapor before it disappeared.
He was angry, but tired at least.
I was grateful for that, as I was suffering the same exhaustion from this waltz.
“When... will you admit... that I won’t yield?” I breathed, my red fingers gripping the handle of the shovel, pushing it against his skin.
“You will.” He exhaled wearily. As he caught his breath, he leaned back with his hands on his hips, looking down at me as if to decide where we would go from here. The overcast light made those cruel gray eyes look even brighter—more calculating.
