Page 57 of Torn By Fate

My hands clawed at his wrist, nails raking across skin. I scratched deep enough to draw blood; I felt it beneath my fingernails, warm and slick, but he didn’t react. He didn’t release me.

I bit his hand, my teeth sinking into the meat of his palm and grinding down until I tasted his blood this time, metallic and thick.

His grip on my throat tightened in response, fingers pressing into the tendons on either side of my neck with enough force to make my vision swim.

The bones of my jaw compressed, the invisible weight on my chest growing even more suffocating.

I fought him.

Again and again.

I wasn’t going to die tonight…

With all the twisting and bucking, the edge of the bed eventually came beneath my shoulder, and I used it to my advantage, rolling hard to my right. My weight shifted, and his hand slipped from my mouth for half a second, long enough for me to scream again, a broken, desperate sound that echoed off the walls of the small room.

His fist came down. I felt it graze my temple, and the impact sent white light exploding behind my eyes.

The world tilted and I was falling…

My body crashed onto the carpet, the impact forcing the air from my lungs in a painful, soundless rush.

Run. Fight. Save yourself.

The words screamed through my mind as I scrambled to my hands and knees, my fingers frantically brushing the edge of the nightstand.

My gun was there. I needed my gun.

His hand closed around my ankle.

The grip was crushing. His fingers wrapped around my leg like iron bands, and he pulled. I was dragged backward across the carpet, my nightgown riding up.

Wild, senseless fear slithered through my veins, my body almost convulsing with it.

I kicked with my free foot, and my heel caught something hard. It didn’t matter what body part it was; he made a sound that might have been pain, but it was vanished before I could be sure.

I twisted onto my back, both hands gripping his wrist, trying to pry his fingers loose from my ankle. His skin was slick with sweat or blood; I couldn’t tell which, and my fingers kept slipping.

I reached up blindly, and my hand found the lamp on the nightstand.

I swung it.

The ceramic base connected with the side of his head and shattered, and for one terrible, hopeful moment, I thought I had done it. I thought he would drop.

I turned my head to the side, my eyes finding the door. It was right there, just a few feet away. I could make it. I could—

He didn’t drop though. He didn’t stop.

No.

A broken sob escaped me as he kept pulling.

No.

I was on my back now, staring up at him, and I could see his face for the first time. The man who was sent to kill me.

He was younger than I expected, and his eyes were…wrong. Flat. Dead. The eyes of a man who had been trained not to feel anything.

He released my ankle only to lunge forward, both hands coming for my throat again.