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Rage twists every line and contour of his face into something savage. Determination and murderous intent shine in his eyes as he hauls Mitch’s large body towards the bathroom like it weighs nothing.
I crawl after them to the doorway, still too weak to use my legs, and see Rhys flip open the lid of the toilet open and yank Mitch up by the collar before plunging his head into the bowl.
“I’m going to fucking kill you.” Rhys’ voice shakes with the force of his anger as he holds Mitch’s head underwater.
The latter fights for air, his hands flying every which way as he searches desperately for something to save him.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
There's something surreal about watching Mitch being drowned in the toilet bowl of the apartment I grew up in. It's humiliating and terrifying and he deserves nothing more.
Rhys pulls him out of the water and he inhales a massive breath.
Fresh anger crosses Rhys’ face at the sound of Mitch’s breathing. “Just fucking die.”
He plunges his head back into the toilet bowl, drowning him again. I have no doubt that he’s going to kill him if I don’t intervene.
I want nothing more than to see Mitch die, but I don’t want that on Rhys’ conscience. Let him be arrested, let him go to prison for the rest of his life, that’s enough.
“Mackley,” I call out weakly, the word coming out more of a croak than anything in my bruised throat.
He doesn’t hear me, his entire focus fixated on the man he’s suffocating in a dirty toilet bowl.
“Mackley,” I try again, stronger this time, but I still don’t get through. He’s too far gone, too overtaken by revenge to hear me. Unless…
“Rhys!” I cry out and his eyes immediately snap to mine. They soften dramatically as they take me in. I’m half-sitting, half-kneeling, clutching the door frame for strength as I try to hold myself up. “Don’t kill him. Please don’t kill him.”
Rage is back in his eyes as he debates whether to listen to me or not.
“Why not?”
Mitch is still fighting to free himself and get to oxygen, but his efforts are getting weaker and weaker.
“I don’t want you to kill him for me. Please, let’s call the police. I don’t want to watch him die.” I beg, brokenly.
The moment the words are out, Rhys pulls him out of the bowl and uses the leverage to smash his head down against the porcelain toilet seat.
There’s a sickening crunch and blood sprays everywhere. If he's not done, he will be very soon unless he gets some help.
Rhys releases him and Mitch falls limply to the floor, unconscious but appearing to breathe even with the massive gash on his forehead.
Rhys strides over his prone body in one step and scoops me up into his arms, crushing me desperately against him. “My love,” he whispers heatedly against my temple in his deep British accent, and I wrap my arms around his neck and cry.
I'm safe.
"I thought I'd lost you. I thought he'd killed you." He cries out and I hear the heartbreaking terror in his voice. I realize that as painful as this was for me, walking in on this scene must have been hard for him too. It's his greatest fear to have someone else he loves die, and he almost got a front row seat to that very thing.
He slides to the ground with me cocooned in his embrace and holds me as I cry, brushing my hair with gentle, comforting hands as sobs rack through my body.
“You saved my life,” I say through broken sobs.
I don’t know how long we sit there, but it feels like I cry forever. I cry for the past few weeks, I cry for the pain and fear, I cry for the relief and safety I feel in his arms.
The tears eventually subsides, but Rhys doesn’t move. He keeps rubbing circles on my back and caressing my hair and waits for me to move.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
“I told you that an ocean wouldn’t keep me from you.”
