“No,” she says quickly, manufacturing a lie she hopes might save them. “But my husband will be back soon. He’s not far.”
He’s unimpressed. “Mhmm. Who’s that behind you?”
“Don’t worry about her. Don’t even look at her,” Addison spits back.
“Momma-”
“Quiet!” she hisses, hushing Emma and pointing her shotgun higher, steadying her sandpaper-rough voice. “Don’t look at her or I swear I’ll shoot you.”
“You’ll have a real hard time there since that piece of shit probably ain’t seen a bullet since the first world war,” he replies, dropping his own gun to his side as if to prove the point.
Of course, he knows the gun on the wall is completely useless.
“Please don’t kill us,” she begs, setting the shotgun on the bed beside her. “Please, I’m pregnant.”
“Congratulations,” he says with a deadpan stare.
“My husband will be back any minute.”
“Heard you the first time. I’ll deal with that when it happens, or you can just get the fuck outta my house and go find him. Go on.” He steps aside, but she hesitates. It could be a trick. If it’s not, that doesn’t make it any safer to leave. They won’t last the night. “Yeah, it’s a nightmare out there. I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t have come all this way to get here myself if it wasn’t.”
With a slight limp, he hobbles down the hall, leaving her behind like they weren’t pointing guns at each other a minute ago.
“Stay here,” she tells Emma. “If something happens to me, you run. Understand? Don’t trust him. Get out of here and don’t look back.”
“No, don’t go.”
“I have to. I have to. Stay here.”
Reluctantly, she peers into the empty hall, creeping further out to find this new intruder rummaging through the kitchen cabinets.
“There’s a stockpile in the basement. You can have what’s left.” She tries, reaching for the only material thing she has to offer him.
“How much is left?”
“Not much.”
They can’t leave, but she can’t let this stranger stay either. For all she knows, the moment she falls asleep, he’ll grab her or Emma and…
It’s only now, in the brighter light of the kitchen, that she notices the extent of his injuries. He favors his left side, cradling his arm with a wince, crimson dripping down his fingers onto the wood floor. The slash across the middle of his shirt is another tell that this isn’t the first battle he’s had recently. He came far closer to losing the previous one.
She knows Vincent. What sets him off, and what calms him down. Most of the time, she can put the odds in her favor. Not always, but she’s well-versed in his moods. This guy is a wildcard. She has little confidence in her ability to keep them alive in this situation, and that’s what drives her reckless thoughts to drift to the kitchen knife on the counter.
She can’t let him hurt Emma. She can’t let him kill her when she’s got a baby to protect.
He’s twice her size, but the element of surprise could work in her favor, considering he hasn’t so much as looked at her since leaving the bedroom.
“You better be real talented with a blade if you decide to use one on me,” he drawls, grabbing the kitchen knife with a slow hand before facing her, his back against the counter as he cleans his nails with the sharp tip.
“I wasn’t…”
“Of course you were.”
She swallows hard, watching as he flips the knife in his grip to slam it into the butcher block countertop hard enough to stand erect.
“If you decide to take your chances, I won’t fault you for it, but only one of us will make it out of that alive, and it won’t be you. Then I’ll make sausage outta both of you. Can’t waste nothing out here.”
The horrified grimace on her face is quick, and he smirks, just enough that it rakes at her nerves.
