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For not turning the deadbolt.
For not being street-wise enough to sense a threat.
But then all there was after was panic.
The kind that rooted in the belly and grew upward, strong, thick vines that wrapped themselves around your neck until you felt like you were choking for air, felt like your face was getting tingly, like your brain was getting thick and slow.
"Fucking dreamed of this moment since that first day I met you."
Bobby.
Bobby was in my room.
Bobby was the one who ripped off my towel.
Bobby, our friendly neighborhood gambler.
Except there was nothing friendly about baring a woman in her room, looking at her with desire in your eyes.
With hands that were clearly bent on taking if what he wanted was not offered.
"Charlie is going to kill you for this," I told him, scrambling toward the bed to snatch the sheet up, more aware of my nakedness than my proximity to the door.
"Well, now. Charlie ain't here, is he?" he asked, stalking closer, stale cigarette breath seeming to waft into the air around him, making it toxic to breathe as I scrambled away, backing myself up into the table where my purse was still situated.
"I'll scream," I tried.
"Not if your face is in the mattress," he said, hand snagging my wrist, closing tight around it, a grip sure to leave bruises in its wake, forcing me to relive this moment days in the future.
And as my body yanked forward, colliding with his, as his hard dick pressed into my hipbone, I realized he was right.
Charlie wasn't here.
I was on my own.
But I wasn't helpless.
I wasn't the five-year-old girl who couldn't save her mama.
I wasn't the young woman who got her ass beat by a grown man, not even thinking to call child services.
I was not some meek, helpless girl.
I was a woman who shot her own father.
Who killed her abuser.
Who sent her brother to jail for it.
I didn't cower.
I didn't give in.
I stood my ground.
And I ripped their fucking throats out for daring to think they could hurt me.
I felt a hand close around my throat, squeezing.
But the panic melted away like a pre-dawn fog to the unyielding morning sun.
Because maybe Charlie was a new man.
A man who lived life by his own terms.
But I was a new woman too.
One who refused to ever be used again, ever be taken advantage of again.
And this?
This would not fucking stand.
My hand came up, the heel catching him under the chin, sending him flying back a foot with a savage curse.
Maybe the smart thing would have been to retreat, to run to the door, to seek help.
But smart wasn't what I wanted to be right then.
I wanted to be savage.
Ruthless.
I wanted to be a goddamned Mallick.
Not just by name, as the ring on my finger suggested, one Charlie got as a place-keeper from the secondhand store until he could get me one he thought I deserved.
No.
Not just by name.
By fucking reputation too.
So I didn't retreat.
I charged.
I punched, kicked, slapped, clawed, bit.
Unprepared for the fight, he froze at first before coming at me.
I was untrained.
Clumsy and predictable.
Tall, but weak.
Compared to his compact strength.
I felt a fist to my cheekbone, the pain a shattering, eye-watering thing.
Another to my mouth, my lips seeming to swell immediately, feeling puffy and unable to hold in the trickle of blood that slid out.
"Fucking bitch. You're gonna pay for that," he roared when my knee just barely landed a blow to his crotch.
He stopped to suck in a breath before he charged.
Enough time.
Just barely enough.
For my hand to close around the sturdy glass base of the nightstand lamp, ripping it up fast, the cord yanking from the socket just in time for me to raise it and swing.
The crack was a sickly satisfying thing.
I watched with perverse pleasure as the blood bloomed across his temple before he dropped to the floor, knees hitting first, then face second, another hauntingly welcome sound that said I did it.
I saved myself.
I proved myself.
I loved Charlie.
I loved that his reputation was growing, that he was going to be a man to be feared and respected.
But I didn't want to live in his shadow, be protected by his name.
I wanted to be feared for my own.
I wanted the men in this town to take a step away from me out of fear that a brush to my shoulder might mean a broken jaw, eating through a straw for months.
I wanted everyone to know I was not someone to fuck with.
That thought was still taking root in my head when I saw it.
The way the room was lighting up red and blue.
My heart flew up into my throat as I groped for the comforter, just barely managing to yank it up when the door burst open, and two men rushed inside, flashlights and guns raised, one crossed over the other.
