Page 82 of Chasing Wildflowers
“Lane!” Byron’s voice thunders through the house, echoing off the walls. “Get down here now!”
My body goes rigid. What could I have done this time?
My gaze slides from the bedroom door to the bed, where my gun is tucked safely beneath the mattress. I bite my lip, fingers twitching at my sides. Something inside me screams to grab it, but I don't. Just a few more days. Then freedom. Everything is in place. As soon as he leaves for his annual trip with his buddies, I’m gone.
I force my legs to move, each step like wading through quick sand. Pulling in a deep, steading breath, I grip the handle with a trembling hand and twist it open. Prepared to face my monster one last time.
Byron stands in the middle of our picture perfect living room, red-faced and fuming, the vein on the side of his neck throbbing from beneath his collar.
What did the hell I do to make him so mad? I haven’t left the house in days; besides another miserable lunch with his mother.
He holds up a yellow folder, and the world tilts on its axis. “Would you like to explain this to me?” His voice is sharp, slicing through the air as he takes a slow, menacing step.
My heart beats loudly in my ears, deafening. I stare at him in horror and shock, my feet refusing to move. Heat creeps through my body, nausea sitting heavy in my stomach.
There’s nothing to say.
He found my documents to start my new life.
I am fucked.
He tosses the folder on the coffee table, his voice ice cold. “Did you really think you could just leave me, Ceciley?”
Another step.
I can’t move. I’m frozen against the floor, fear creeping into every inch of my body.
“What did I tell you would happen if you ever tried to leave me?” he snarls, taking another step closer. “I’ve warned you.” His tone is deadly. “But you went ahead and thought you were smarter than me.”
He stops right in front of me, close enough that his breath hits my face, hot and reeking of scotch.
The back of his hand connects with the side of my face with a sickening crack. White-hot pain radiates through my head as I crash to the floor.
He looms over me, eyes cold and empty. I cradle my cheek, tasting blood on my tongue.
“Do you still think you are smarter than me, Ceciley?”
He bends, his fingers closing around my throat in an iron grip. He lifts me off the ground, pressing me against the wall.
“You did this to yourself,” he hisses, tightening his grip.
Black spots bloom across my vision. My lungs burn, desperate for air. I claw at his wrist, nails digging into his skin, desperate to escape. He isn’t just trying to scare me this time. Nope. This is it. He’s going to kill me.
My vision flickers. All my planning. All my dreams. Gone. Something deep inside of me awakens. Fear snaps into adrenaline. I bring my knee up, hard, between his legs.
He grunts, and his hands release me. He sinks to the ground, groaning, his hands cradling his assaulted groin.
I don’t hesitate. I run.
My pulse roars in my ear, as I take the stairs two at a time. I sprint down the hall and into our bedroom, slamming the door behind me. My breath is sharp and ragged as I drop to my knees beside the bed. My hand closes around the cool metal of my hand gun.
I grip it tightly and aim it at the door.
There’s silence for a few tense seconds, only the rapid beat of my pulse drumming in my ears. Then, the thump, thump, thump of his shoes running up the stairs.
My finger twitches on the trigger. I take a deep steadying breath.
The footsteps stop right outside the door. This is it.
