My purse was still slung over one shoulder—a detail I was suddenly grateful for. Before leaving the house, I’d pretended to search for lipstick, fumbling through drawers and muttering excuses while I slid Maksym’s knife deep into the side pocket. That flimsy moment of deception might be the only thing standing between me and whatever Felix had planned now. With trembling hands, I reached inside and pulled the blade free. It felt too light to do anything. Too small against a man like him. But I gripped it anyway.
I kicked off my heels, the sharp clatter of them hitting the tile swallowed by the chaos at the door. I stood trembling, clutchingthe knife in both hands, facing the door like a trapped animal. The air felt too thick to breathe. He was going to come through. Any second now.
He was screaming now, words dissolving into snarls. “You think this little piece of shit wood is going to save you? I’m going to rip it apart and then I’m going to ripyouapart. Piece. By. Fucking. Piece.”
The final crack was deafening.
The door burst inward with a violent crash, splinters flying—and I lunged.
The blade grazed his forearm before he caught my wrists midair.
He stared at the cut on his arm, then back at me. “You just made the biggest mistake of your life.”
We staggered out of the bathroom, locked in a struggle. I tried to hold on, but he wrenched the knife free, and it clattered to the floor just beside the bed.
“You stupid little whore,” he spat, and then he headbutted me.
My head snapped back as I collapsed onto the bed, clutching my skull as nausea surged. Pain exploded behind my eyes. Everything hurt.
I could barely breathe.
He climbed over me, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. I curled in on myself instinctively, hands still pressed to my head, tears burning at the corners of my eyes.
“Stop struggling,” he said, low and steady. “You’re only going to make this ugly.”
His words slid over me like oil, filthy and suffocating, as I lay there shaking, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might split my ribs open.
His hand moved to my hip.
I felt the pressure before I understood it—his fingers digging in, claiming, lifting the fabric of my dress. I tried to twist away,my voice breaking as I told him to stop, begged him to stop, but his body came down heavier, pinning me to the mattress.
Fabric tore.
The sound was sharp and final, like something snapping inside me.
Cold air hit my skin. I tried to cover myself with my hands, curling inward, but he was already there, his body pressing me back down, stealing what little space I had left.
I thrashed, breathless, as his mouth brushed my skin, and then—slowly—his tongue followed the path of my tears, like he was tasting my fear. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could will this nightmare away, but nothing changed. No one was coming. No one was going to save me.
I had to save myself.
His tongue was still dragging over my tears when I surged upward, clamping my teeth down on the side of his neck like an animal fighting for its life.
He howled and jerked back, one hand flying to the spot, blood welling beneath his fingers. He looked stunned for a moment—just long enough for me to act. The back of his hand came down across my face in a stinging slap, but I barely felt it.
I kicked hard, catching him in the stomach and scrambling free as he stumbled. I tumbled off the bed in a clumsy rush, my shoulder hitting the floor as I half-slid, half-fell before scrambling toward the knife.
He was still disoriented, not understanding what I was doing until it was too late.
The blade drove into his shoulder with a sick, grating resistance, right where muscle met bone.
He roared in pain, staggering back—and that’s when the door burst open behind me.
A shadow filled the frame.
The guard.
Fuck.
