His boot slams into my face, nose crunching.
My arm slackens, falling to the pavement.
The Spider stands over me, gun pointed. “Shall it be two gunshot wounds before we’re even in the air.”
“Fuck you.”
His jaw spasms, his frustration rising. He should scoop me up. Throw me down in the plane.
Instead he bends down on one knee, his hand splaying around my neck, tightening.
The weight of what’s happening pins me to the ground, iciness pelting over my inflamed skin.
“You’re more than welcome to act like a brat for Cade,” he says, his words oddly neutral considering he’s choking me out. “But you’re getting on this fucking plane.”
His fingers squeeze tighter, my lungs struggling. A bloody hand—my bloody hand—fights against his.
There’s a glint of true evil in his hazel eyes. His face aloof.
A typical day for the Spider, I guess. Strangling women.
My hand slaps at his, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. I turn my head as far as I can manage.
My sister is beside me, her pale face blank, her eyes glassy.
This is how a pedestrian on their early morning walk found my sister after her rapist strangled her.
Her hair had been caked in mud. Her neck bruised, her body treated like nothing in its final moments.
A man had shoved her to the ground, putting all of his strength into an act of brutality.
My sister had worn mauve eyeshadow with glitter. It was the first time in weeks she’d done her makeup, she was so stressed from the end of term. She’d worn her favorite pair of jeans. She’d sent me a photo from the dressing room at Topshop when she’d first bought them.
I do not want to die.
My other hand reaches up, waving in front of his face.
The Spider easily dodges, but I continue to reach, his annoyance increasing.
I feel the curve of his nose connecting to his cheekbone. His torso moves back, but my hand pushes, my fingers sticking into his eye.
At first they merely touch the squishy organ, but I keep pushing.
The Spider growls in frustration. His hand relaxes just the slightest. My torso lifts, jamming two fingers into his eye.
I instinctively know the foreign words he barks out are curse words. They spur me on, telling me I’m on the right path. With all the strength I can muster, I put the force of my weight into pushing at the delicate organ.
I know it’s nothing more than a nuisance because in this position, and despite using all my strength, I’m nothing more than a gnat to him.
But while he’s swearing at me—his eye closed and his balance off-kilter—my other hand smacks the gun out of his hand.
It skids across the pavement, barely an arm's length away, but the move startles him. He releases my neck, and we both scramble for the weapon.
My fingers grasp, curling around it tight despite pain exploding when his boot kicks my wrist.
“Matheson!”
All I see are the whites of his eyes as his upper body barrels toward me.
