Page 33 of Pretty Little Threats

Come on, Rose. Do it.

Panting, knuckles white, mind racing, I press a little harder. As the tip of the knife digs into his skin, a crimson bead of blood appears. My stomach protests, and I swallow bitter bile. I don’t know if I can kill him. I want to. Fuck, I want to. It would be so easy. It would solve so many problems. He deserves it.

Every muscle in my body shakes.

My gut churns.

Slowly, my grip on the knife loosens.

And then movement near the stairs catches my attention. My gaze swings up and meets the beast’s.

I have no idea why he’s here, but a relieved sob wrenches from my chest.

I’m not alone. Eric won’t hurt me with Dare around. He’d be too scared.

Dare stares at me, his brown eyes unreadable as he takes in the bruises on my cheek, the blood covering my skin, my split lip, and then he studies the rest of the damage. The broken glass. The parts of the coffee pot that are still together, coated in Eric’s blood, and then, finally, he takes in the man under me.

Fury flashes across Dare’s face. “Well, fuck, princess.”

eleven

DARE

Flowers litter the floor,scattered between the shards of a broken coffee pot, blood dripping from a jagged piece that’s still intact. Then I zero in on the bane of my existence, sitting on top of a man’s prone form. Rose is a mess. Top ripped, angry bruises littering her skin, blood dripping down her face, and the most intriguing thing of all—a knife clutched in her hand. She’s holding it so tight, every knuckle is pure white.

Seeing her like this makes my breath catch.

What the fuck did Eric do?

She narrows her eyes on the man lying unconscious on the floor. Her cheeks are flushed a brighter shade of red than the blood covering her. Every breath has her chest heaving, and the blade shakes in her grip as she presses the sharpened edge to Eric’s throat.

Good girl.

I hold my breath, waiting to see what she’ll do, but seconds tick by until, eventually, her body sags in defeat.

Pity, that. I would have liked watching Rose cross all her supposed moral lines to kill her attacker. I holster my gun, and her gaze flies to meet mine, eyes wild with fright, but something akin to relief flickers through them when she realizes it’s me.

The emotion slams into my chest, my heart giving a heavy thump in response.

And then she sobs.

One hard, ragged sound that wrenches sympathy from the depths of my broken soul.

Taking a step forward, I study the scene again. The bruises and blood covering her body. The mess. Her torn shirt. The man under her. The violent tremble of her limbs.

I know what almost happened here.

Rage roots me in place. Fury burns in my chest.

What if I hadn’t come?

What if she hadn’t managed to get Eric down?

What if—STOP.

Eric attacked her and she fought like hell.

Taking a deep breath, I move my eyes back to hers. “Well, fuck, princess.” I take another step, watching her reaction.

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