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She'd locked all her doors since then and even slept with a light on. But tonight, exhausted after a long day of work, she couldn't make herself care or even think about intruders.
Morning sickness had struck. Hard. And she was always so tired; she wanted to sleep around the clock.
Too worn out to hurry through a shower, she soaked in the tub for about an hour, turning wrinkly and cold before she forced herself to climb out again. After slipping on a robe, she reached for a towel and rubbed at her dripping hair. But as she opened the door to her bathroom and started into the bedroom, she saw him.
A stranger stood by her closet. Jerking to a stop, she stumbled in reverse, back into the bathroom.
His face had been turned away, but when she tripped on the terrycloth belt hanging from her open robe and stumbled, making a noise that echoed through her head, her intruder spun around. Short, with lean shoulders, thin, scraggly hair and beady, deep-set eyes, he stared at her with a vacant expression.
Yelping, she dropped her towel and regained her balance, still scurrying backward toward the bathroom. He smiled wickedly, displaying a mouth full of rotting teeth—no doubt decaying from too much meth use— and shook his head a split second before he pulled a knife from his pocket and flipped it open.
"So, we meet at last," he said in a voice that was too low for a man this slight of frame.
Then he charged.
Willow screamed, whirled and flung herself into the bathroom. She slammed the door and locked it just as he reached her. He rattled the handle; her breathing hitched as she watched it jiggle back and forth.
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Oh, God. Oh, God.
She had no idea what to do.
Realizing he couldn't get in that way, the intruder slammed his entire body—or something equally big—against the door panel.
Willow jerked.
Oh, God.
The door shuddered and heaved. When she heard wood splinter, she leapt into action. Grabbing a cabinet she'd bought and assembled last year because her shelves were overflowing with cosmetics, she pushed it toward the door, hoping it could work as a blockade. Bottles of lotions, perfumes, and hair gel rattled off the shelves, scattering across the floor and tripping her.
More wood cracked. She whimpered, beginning to hyperventilate. Slipping on the damp tile, she fell to her knees twice and banged her shins but popped right back up to shove some more. Just as he might've broken inside, she propelled the cabinet in front of the doorway and planted her own body in front of that.
Not even realizing tears streamed down her cheeks, she braced all her strength against the flimsy piece of furniture. He screamed at her, telling her she couldn't evade him forever.
"Oh, yes I can," she muttered and shoved wet hair out of her face.
"I'm going to kill you, bitch," he roared. "Kill you!"
Something thudded against the door, making a strange pinging sound. Willow glanced over her shoulder long enough to see the tip of his knife pierce through before he pulled it out to stab again. She sobbed, realizing he wouldn't stop until he broke into her bathroom. Glancing around for something to help her defend herself, she spotted her purse on the vanity. She'd been so fatigued she'd carried it straight into the lavatory with her.
Sobbing out a cry of relief, she stretched for it only to realize it sat about a yard beyond her reach; she'd have to shift her weight away from her post to grab the bag. Yet if she moved, he'd gain entrance and she'd never have a chance to dig her cell phone out to call anyone.
Cursing and panting, she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. A picture of Raith's face popped her into her head.
She choked out a dry heave, wanting that arrogant, conceited jerk here more than she'd ever wanted anything.
But she had to do something before she'd ever see him again. Growling out a sound of rage—her war cry, she thought instantly—she dived for the purse, grabbing the strap and pulling it to her even as she darted back to the blockade. The door moved in a good six inches and she could actually see her attacker's face, the insanity in his eyes and the glint from his blade, before she plopped her body back against the cabinet and slammed his fingers in the latch.
Ignoring his scream of rage, she dug into her bag. Wanting to call Raith, she suddenly remembered she'd never programmed his number into her phone. His business card currently sat in her bedroom on her dresser, inches away from her attacker's elbow as he hacked through her bathroom door. Trying to remember those seven elusive digits, she squeezed her eyes shut and started to pray. But the phone number never came to her. Thinking maybe he'd been the last person she'd called since the last time her intruder had broken in, she hit redial.
Disappointment and relief caught her tight her when her brother, Chase, answered. She would've preferred Raith, but at the moment, anyone would do.
"Chase," Willow gurgled out his name. "Oh God, Chase, help me!"
She screamed when the knife stabbed through the door again.
"Willow?" her brother called. "What's wrong?"
