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He’d never put a hand on me before. Not even after I’d decked him. Not the countless times I’d practically dragged Wren out of his home before.
I don’t know if it was because I was capable and willing to hit him, or if he was worried that because I wasn’t brainwashed by him, that I might create actual trouble for him.
I guess him never hurting me made it all the more shocking when he did. When his other hand went up by back, grabbed a handful of my hair at the base, yanked it back, then slammed my head forward into the door, making my vision shoot off little sparks that I fought back as hard as I could, knowing I needed to stay conscious.
If for no other reason than to protect my phone.
Granted, I had a passcode on it, but I knew Josh well enough to know he was more than capable of breaking it if he worked on it long enough.
And inside he would find texts to Wren about her classes. Granted, I didn’t even have her saved as Wren in my phone. But he wasn’t stupid. He would figure it out. Then he would start stalking the college campuses until he found her.
I didn’t work this goddamn hard to get her life started over just to have him drag her back with him.
No way.
So I ignored the way a splitting migraine started almost instantly after the slam, and used what little knowledge I had of self-defense—all of which I’d learned from a weekend course on women’s self-defense that I’d forced Wren to take with me before she started school—and butted out my hips, then used the little space that gave me to slam my free elbow back into his ribs.
There was a satisfying hiss of pain as he released my arm. Turning, my arm shot out toward my mail table, knowing there was a letter opener there that I’d taken from my father’s study when we’d cleaned out the house. It had belonged to his grandfather. So it was old and sturdy and sharp as hell.
I didn’t feel relief until my fingers curled around the handle, until I pulled it and held it out as Josh recovered, ready to charge at me again.
“You don’t have the guts, Whit,” he said, that cocky, condescending smirk toying with his lips.
“I think you underestimate how much I hate you,” I shot back.
I mean, no, I was not a violent person. I didn’t even like action movies or that show on TV with all the swords and stuff. It just wasn’t my cuppa tea.
That said, there was this sort of innate, divine, animal rage inside of me toward the man who’d hurt my baby sister.
I didn’t think I would even hesitate to plunge the knife into his gut and drag the sucker upward, slicing through every organ I could as I went.
“Wren told me, you know. How you can’t handle blood.”
“Oh, I’ve had to handle blood many times in my life. Thanks to you,” I added, jerking my chin up.
I operated on love and autopilot the nights I needed to clean up my sister. I didn’t get sick. I barely even registered what was going on until she was all cleaned up and tucked in my bed with some tea.
“Funny thing is, I really am kind of looking forward to seeing your blood again,” I said, gaze going to his nose.
“Yeah, you bitch, I never made you pay for that, did I?” he asked, advancing a step, ready to test his theory about my willingness to kill or seriously maim him.
The more he focused on me, the less he was thinking about Wren.
“Why don’t you try?” I suggested.
It all happened so fast.
He lunged.
I stabbed.
I felt some resistance as the knife hit something, but I knew instantly that it wasn’t deep enough to cause serious harm.
And by then, he had me by the throat.
Then my head was being slammed against the wall once again. That time, I was pretty sure I blacked out for a couple seconds. Because when I fully came to again, he’d grabbed my hair again, yanking backward as his hand tightened around my throat.
Everything was getting a little slow, a little thick. My thoughts, my breathing, my awareness of time.
