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He threw himself at her, knocking her off balance, the trigger sinking beneath her finger.
Somehow, he smacked the gun away in time, and a bullet landed in the drywall behind him. Just as quickly, the gun was out of her hands. This time, he did strike her face, with the weapon too.
Her cheek split open like a piece of overripe fruit, pain stealing her breath, while a sheet of blood poured from her new wound. She tried to push away, but his hand caught her throat. Tight enough to control her, but not so much that he cut off her air.
He held the gun loose by the trigger guard, letting it swing off his fingertip before tossing it to the mantle. “I won’t need that for now. Your boyfriend’s already half-dead, and I have new plans for you before he departs. Since you decided to make this ugly, give me your hands.”
He unbuckled his belt, tugging it free of the loops.
Her head spinning from the blow to her cheek, she didn’t react fast enough, so his hand around her throat tightened, a reminder of where she was and what was happening to her.
Her heart sank and she lifted her hands slowly, more tears coming. He wound the belt around her wrists, so tight the edges cut into her skin, burning, bruising, then shoved her around so she faced Blaine.
His straining breaths could be heard even from yards away, but despite the constant drifting of his eyelids, he held her gaze, moving his shoulders as though he wanted to get up. “Let her go. Please. Do anything you want to me instead.”
“I’ve already put a bullet through you.” Anthony wrenched her back toward him. “No, the only thing I want now is for you to finally see that she’s mine.”
The wet, warmth of Anthony’s mouth met with the lower curve of her neck, and he bit down into her, his teeth sinking deep. She screamed, wrestling away, but he wrenched her back, his mouth now next to her ear. “Perfect, isn’t it? A bullet for me. A bite for you. It’s only fair.”
He swung her around with him and threw her onto the couch. She scrambled to sit, as much as she could with her bound hands. He prowled toward her with a pinched look, one that left no doubt of what he wanted.
What she’d denied him the night before she’d left LA.
“No.” She shook her head and shifted back. He just stared at her with that dead gaze of his, his fingers slow to unbutton his pants.
She knew already, her “no” was little more than useless noise. Not just in this but in every scenario. “No” had always meant nothing to him.
“Get your hands above your head.” He leaned over her. Again, she didn’t move fast enough, so he grabbed her bound wrists and threw them over, her hands landing in the space between the edge of the cushion under her head and the couch’s armrest.
He pressed the bulk of his weight down over her. She couldn’t move. Could hardly draw a breath. “Now you’ll remember who you belong to, won’t you, Em?”
That name again. Even with what was happening to her, it stirred new hatred.
He pressed his cheek hard against hers, causing more pain. “Won’t you, Em?”
She gave a weak nod, but not enough to appease, because he shoved against her, moving her enough that her fingers connected with something hard and plastic behind her cushion.
His hand moved to her dress's hem, and she fought against him while he kneed her legs apart. She sobbed, manic, kicking wildly to keep him away, but he was stronger, heavier, and she was tethered.
All the movement brought the hard object behind her into her grasp. Another panicked sob broke from her.
She was falling apart. She turned to Blaine, needing some strength. He was still in his slumped position, though his head already dipped. Either he wasn’t conscious, or he simply didn’t want to watch.
“Don’t worry about him.” Anthony trained his snappish eyes on her, propping himself up on one elbow. “It’s nothing he hasn’t already seen before, right, Em?”
Getting ready, she wrapped her fingers tight around the object in her hand. For the first time in her life, she willed Anthony closer—a rage-filled inferno igniting—just as he leaned in and seized her mouth with his. She pulled her tied hands out, fingers locked around each other, and she slammed down as hard as she could in a high arch.
Anthony flung his head back and roared an agonized cry. His sudden movement pulled the knife from her grip.
“I fucking hate the name Em.” This time, and maybe for the first time, she was the one to swear. She kicked him off her. He fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes. “And I fucking hate you.”
She pried the knife from his back, the action needing considerable effort, and nothing like what she’d experienced with the hay bales Aggie made her practice on. Here, there were hard bones and the draw of muscle. Blood. It spilled from his back and into her rug like an open faucet.
Air hissed from him, and she guessed that maybe she’d pierced his lungs.
All she could do was stare, her own blood rushing loud in her ears. She took stock of what she’d done, all the while expecting him to spring up and hurt her all over again.
She shuffled back. Stunned. Even now, she recoiled at his closeness, at what he’d tried to do to her, what he’d succeeded in doing to her so many times over so many years.
