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Staining it. Ruining it.

And I feel it then…my rage. Filling my belly, pulling apart the panic, piece-by-piece, tearing it to such tiny shreds that I don’t feel it at all.

The only emotion that’s coursing through my veins, burning through my insides…

Is anger.

Red hot anger.

Because he ruined my outfit. And tried to ruin my life. And…hell, but he almost managed to ruin everything.

My rage bursts out of me, and I fight against his hold on my wrist, his body pressing me into those shelves. I buck and yank, shove and grunt…and the asshole doesn’t move an inch. He’s so much bigger than me.

So much stronger.

The panic begins to slide back in and?—

No!

Every part of my body goes tight—my jaw, my abs, my thighs and calves, and…my fingers.

On the frame of my picture.

Without thinking, I lift my free arm, lift that frame, and I slam it back against Dylan’s head.

He shouts in pain, grip on my wrist loosening, and I lurch away from him.

But I barely make it three feet before he’s there again, this time tackling me to the floor. I go down hard, the picture flying from my grip with a sickening crunch, the air rushing out of my lungs. Still, even as my head hits the hardwood and stars flash across my vision again, I see that he’s bleeding.

Just above his eyebrow.

Like me.

Good.

Barely does that word cross my mind before it all begins to go wrong.

Or rather, it continues to go wrong.

Because he wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes. Too hard. Too fast. I can’t catch my breath, can’t draw in air, can’t do anything but claw at his arms, pull at his wrists, trying desperately to get free.

And failing.

Black creeps into the edges of my vision.

My lungs scream.

My arms drop to the floor?—

And I feel it.

The metal of the picture frame.

My dad rescuing me a second time.

I scrabble at the frame, fumbling for too long before I manage to grasp it. My arm is heavy and it feels like it weighs a thousand pounds when I lift it.

When I slam it against Dylan’s head.