Page 131 of Fire Island
I have the control. Like every underestimated woman who came before me.
Feigning a sob, I bend my head. I wait until Timothy’s hold gives just a little...
One swift, manic thrust of my head backward, my skull slams into his face.
My bonds split instantly as he doubles over, grabbing at his face. Blood pours from his nose.
I step sideways, putting both men to my side.
The big guy advances with the knife. I dance past him, alternating my gaze between the two men. Skirting the room until I come to the cupboard.
Kicking the door open, I sweep down and swipe up the two small blunt knives I left behind last time.
Now the fight’s a little more even.
Big guy chuckles, but his face tightens.
They don’t like it when prey fights back.
That I already know.
I figure he is my biggest threat now. Not Timothy. The size difference alone makes him more formidable. He’s wiping at his face with the back of his hand, his glare burning into me now. “I will stab you, bitch, I have no problem fucking you unconscious.”
Christ.
Timothy lunges at me. I sidestep him. As he tries to circle back, I twist my wrist, sending my blades backward. Spinning toward him, too quick for him to move out of the way, I slice the top of his arm.
“Fuck!” He cowers, grabbing his wounded arm. Blood seeps through his fingers. “You fucking cut me.”
“Want another one?” My voice is low, foreign.
Each breath sears from my lungs before they barely inflate again. My head is vacant except for a singular focus.
Hurting them both.
I wait for one to advance. For them to realize I won’t go down without a fight. My rusty blades and I are committed. In this for the long haul. To the end.
The very end.
Not giving the adrenaline pumping through my harried veins a chance to settle, I close in on Timothy.
He’s my bait.
My target, the bigger threat.
Timothy backs away as I stalk toward him, head bent, my gaze boring into him. My labored breathing fills the hut with no other sounds bar the few raspy breaths from either side of me that I intend on snuffing out.
“Stand still,” the big guy barks at Timothy. “She’s bluffing. She ain’t going to hurt us.”
My weeks of torture and years of torment would disagree.
Still, the big guy holds his position. I slide one knife under Timothy’s throat. Keeping the big guy in my peripheral, I hiss, “I ought to spill your blood all over this damn floor. For every month you sent me letters. Revenge for every butterfly that died at your sadistic hands. For the years of freedom you stole from me.”
He tries to huff a dismissive laugh, his gaze flicking to his buddy, and I shove the blade against his throat harder.
“Nothing about this is funny. And yes, this isallyour fault.”
“You don’t have a clue. Get the fuck off me, you stupid bitch,” he rasps.
