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In his hand is a large knife.
My breath comes in quick ragged bursts, every inhale sharp and hot in my chest. A dull roar fills my ears as my vision narrows to the glint of the blade and the ghost of a smirk on his lips.
Heat floods my body, not from fear – but with rage. White-hot and consuming, it coils in my gut, crawling up my spine like fire licking bone. I’ve never felt anything like this before. Not anger. Not panic. Something primal. A need to protect her, no matter the cost.
I square my shoulders, grounding myself like a shield in the space between him and Lila. My stare locks with his – hard, unflinching.
“Leave now,” I warn, my voice cold and steady, “and we won’t call the police.”
He cackles like a hyena. “Where’s Lila?”
“None of your fucking business. Now get out.”
“Oh, but sheismy business,” he says, swaying slightly. “Lovely. Little. Lila.”
“What do you want?”
“I just want to make sure…” he laughs, his speech slurring slightly. “That our little Lila… isn’t a littlerat!” he barks, thrusting the knife forward into the air in front of him.
I hold steady, forcing myself not to flinch, praying that whatever he’s under the influence of gives me enough of an advantage to knock him unconscious.
“She hasn’t said a word,” I say. “But you can bet she will if you don’t leave this second.”
He sneers. “I don’t believe you.”
“Chris. I’m warning you. Leave. Now.”
Sweat beads on my forehead, the veins in my arms pulsing as I grip the rod, as though imbuing strength into the metal itself.
There’s no fucking way he’s getting anywhere near her.
He laughs again. “I’msoscared of the big, bad man with the big, bad stick!” he mocks.
Then his face drops, turning serious. “Just tell me where that little slag is and I’ll be out of-”
But before he can say another word, I lunge forward, slamming the end of the curtain rod into his chest.
He stumbles backwards, grunting, cursing under his breath.
I think I’ve knocked the wind out of him enough to give me a moment to reposition my hands, but I was wrong, as Chris roars out and pushes the rod upward, slamming it into the wall as he lunges toward me with the knife.
I react instinctively, bringing the rod down like a hammer, andcrack– it hits his arm and the knife clatters to the floor, mere inches from me.
He screams, falling to his knees as he grabs his arm.
“Rot in hell,” I mutter through gritted teeth, but he clearly isn’t done. He grabs the knife and surges back up, swiping it in front of him, and I miscalculate the distance as the blade slices across my arm.
Pain shoots through me, sharp and bright, but I barely register it, the sting only fuelling my anger further.
I shove the rod at him again, forcing him out of the doorway and toward the top of the stairs.
He laughs – delirious, drugged, and cocky – his eyes wide as he stares at the blood dripping down my arm.
I take advantage of his distraction and lunge forward, but he takes a step and manages to duck, avoiding the blow.
He laughs again, thinking he’s escaped, however he’s now at the very top of the stairs, exactly where I need him.
With laser focus, I drive the rod into his chest, watching terror fill his eyes as he loses his footing trying to dodge the blow and falls backward down the stairs, arms flailing.