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Good.

I open my mouth to scream.

His arm locks around me from behind. Something covers my mouth and nose.

Panic detonates through me.

No.

I slam my heel down. Hard.

He swears.

I throw my head backward.

Miss.

My nails dig into his forearm.

I twist. Kick. Fight. But the room is moving too fast. Or I'm moving too slow.

My heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

I try to hold my breath. Try to turn my face away.

His grip tightens.

The edges of the room start to blur.

No.

I claw harder.

Something warm coats my fingertips.

Blood.

I spot it trickling down his arm.

Good.

My knees buckle.

I hate that my body isn't listening. That he's still standing.

The floor tilts.

My phone buzzes inside my purse.

My fingers slip against Mercer's arm.

The lights smear.

It buzzes again.

My last coherent thought isn't fear. It isn't Mercer. It isn't even escape.

It's Roman sitting in that truck, refusing to drive away until he watched me walk through the door.