Page 32 of Pretty Little Threats

Wait. What if he thinks I’ve given in?

I stop fighting, relaxing for a moment while I gather every ounce of strength Ihave.

Eric mistakes it for submission. “That’s right.” His fingers move from my ass to stroke my spine. “See, baby? This is how it should be.”

“Let me see you,” I rasp, hoping he can’t hear the promise of vengeance in my voice.

He pauses.

“Please,” I beg. “I want to see you.”

I don’t know why—maybe he’s an idiot, or maybe he really thinks I’d willingly have sex with him after he tried to force it—but Eric releases my wrists so he can spin me around. But as soon as my hands are free, I grab the coffee pot and whirl around, smashing it against his temple. The impact rattles my bones. Glass shatters, exploding through the air.

A shard slices across my forearm. Blood trickles from the wound, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins keeps me from feeling the pain. Eric roars, rivulets of red streaming down his face, but the strike wasn’t as hard as I hoped.

When I shove his chest, forcing him back over broken glass, it crunches under his shoes. Dammit. I take a step, gasping at the sharp tips of glass that embed in the heel of my foot. Pushing through the pain, I reach for the vase of flowers on the island. Strong arms band around my torso right as my fingers curl around the lip of the glass.

“Fucking cunt,” Eric snarls. He grabs the back of my top, tugging hard enough that the material pulls against my neck, painfully digging in until it gives with a single, freeing rip that practically booms through the house.

I grip the vase tightly and twist with all my might, turning my body and slamming the thick glass into the side of his head. Water splashes over me, splats against the floor, and the fresh flowers tumble tothe ground, smashed under our feet as we struggle. My sense of safety destroyed, right alongside them.

This can’t be my future.

Eric sways, his hold on me tightening until I’m pinned against his chest, and then we’re falling. My stomach drops. Eric hits the marble with a thud. His body cushions me from the worst of the fall, but air rushes out of my lungs all the same.

Shaking, I dig my nails into the skin of his forearms, trying to rip them off me. His grip remains tight. A cage. Shackles holding me down.

This will be my life if I marry him. A constant battle for survival.

Eric groans.

My blood chills.

How is he still conscious?

Wiggling, I move up until my head is right on top of his, then slam the back of my skull into his face as hard as I can. Stars dance in my vision. Agony explodes inside my head. Eric shouts in pain.

Again.

Don’t stop.

I crunch, tightening my abs, before smacking my head into his face again, crying out as my own pain radiates through me. By some miracle, his arms finally go limp. A strangled laugh of victory bubbles out of me as I struggle through my wavering vision, fighting the urge to throw up. I crawl over the glass, wincing and bleeding and hurting. My limbs shaking, breath shuddering, I yank a drawer open, grabbing the chef’s knife before making my way back over to Eric’s prone form. His face is covered in blood, nose crooked from where my head smashed against it. Bits ofglass are embedded in his skin. But, still, the bastard’s chest rises and falls.

I have to kill him.

Longing for someone to die is a new feeling, but it’s not entirely unwelcome. What he intended to do to me would have killed a part of myself.

I stop beside him, clench the handle of the knife between my lips to adjust my pants, securing them around my hips, then hold it tightly in my left hand. My throat burns from repressing tears and sobs, but there’s no time to break down now.

I glare at the asshole who almost—a choked sound cuts off the thought.

Eric’s finger twitches.

My chest tightens as fear sluices through my veins.

A high-pitched ringing fills my ears, and I lose the seconds between sitting on the floor and moving to straddle him. My hands tremble as I place the knife at his throat.

One slice is all it would take.

---