Page 30 of Puck Your Charity

Rick stands in the archway leading to the hall. He wears a stained gray t-shirt and loose gym shorts. He didn't go to work. The smell of his stale sweat and cheap body spray fills the small kitchen, suffocating the aroma of my coffee.

He’s trapped me.

"I thought you went to work." I grip the handle of the butter knife. My voice shakes.

Rick steps out of the shadows. He takes a slow step into the kitchen, blocking my escape.

"I decided to take a rest day." He smirks, his eyes dragging up and down my body. "I noticed you came out of your cave. You look hungry."

"I just wanted some toast." I reach behind me and grab my ceramic coffee mug with my free hand. The hot porcelain burns my palm.

Rick takes another step forward. He crosses his arms over his chest. His gaze drops to my neck.

The lingering flush from my morning dreams still stains my skin. The red patches give away my arousal. A Beta lacks the ability to smell my slick, but he sees the visual proof of my vulnerability.

"You still look flushed." Rick runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "Those suppressants wear off fast. You must be burning up right now. A desperate Omega needs relief."

"Stay away from me." I raise the butter knife, pointing the dull metal edge at his chest. "I told you what happens if you touch me, Rick. I call Chloe. I call the cops."

"Chloe isn't here." Rick chuckles, a dark, sickening sound. "The cops take ten minutes to get out to the suburbs. We have plenty of time. You need a knot, Olive. You need a cock to stretch you out and make that fever go away. I can fix you right here on the kitchen counter."

The sheer audacity of his words makes my blood boil. The fear morphs into absolute, blinding rage.

He sees me as a submissive toy. He thinks my new status makes me weak. That an unbonded Omega lacks the willpower to fight back.

He lunges forward.

His large hands grab my waist. He plans to pin me against the counter and force his weight over my body.

I refuse to freeze. I refuse to be a victim in my sister's kitchen.

I swing my right arm in a vicious arc.

The heavy ceramic coffee mug smashes into the side of his head. The porcelain shatters on impact. Boiling hot coffee splashes across his face, his neck, and his shoulder.

Rick screams.

He stumbles backward, his hands flying up to cover his burned face. His grip on my waist breaks. He trips over the edge of the kitchen rug and crashes into the wooden dining table. The table slides across the linoleum with a deafening screech.

"You crazy bitch!" Rick roars, clutching his scalded skin.

Adrenaline floods my veins. I drop the broken mug handle and the butter knife onto the floor.

I sprint out of the kitchen. My sneakers slip on the spilled coffee, but I catch my balance on the doorframe. I run down the narrow hallway as fast as my legs can move.

I burst into the spare bedroom.

I grab the straps of my duffel bag off the floor. I never unpacked the clothes. I snatch my purse off the nightstand.

I sprint back down the hall. Rick groans from the kitchen, struggling to get up from the floor.

Hitting the front entryway, my hands fumble with the locks. I twist the deadbolt and yank the handle, throwing the heavy wooden door open.

I burst out onto the front porch. The morning sun blinds me.

I run down the cracked concrete driveway. Pulling my car keys out of my purse, my fingers shake. I hit the unlock button. I throw my duffel bag into the passenger seat. Slipping behind the steering wheel, I slam the door shut. I hit the master lock button. All four doors lock with a solid, satisfying thud.

I jam the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life.