Page 114 of Famine

My muscles tense.

Famine’s the only person I’d actually trust to slip into my room at night, and that’s because he doesn’t hide his own brand of evil like the rest of us. But if the figure were Famine, he’d be bigger, his shoulders wider and his torso more tapered.

He probably also wouldn’t give a fuck about being quiet.

The intruder steps into the room, and a distant light glints off the object in their hand.

A blade.

Jesus.

The intruder doesn’t even hesitate, heading straight for the bed.

Move, Ana!

There’s a brass candelabra on the bedside table next to me. Silently, I reach for it, grabbing the cool metal base. And then I wait, though it just about kills me to do so.

The figure comes so close I see that it’s a man. He doesn’t stop until he’s at the bedside. He leans in, reaching a hand for my throat, his blade coming up as well.

I can see it all play out for a moment—how he’d subdue me first, then move onto the bed. And from there … well, I wish I didn’t know what happened once a wicked man was fully in control of this sort of situation, but prostitution is no fairytale.

I lift the candelabra and swing it as hard as I can at my assailant. I miss his head, instead hitting the man’s knife-wielding hand with a heavyclink. A familiar male voice cries out as his blade is knocked away.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

Heitor.

Of course it’s him. He’s the only one brazen enough to do this.

“Bitch,” he curses, lunging for my weapon.

In a panic, I swing the candelabra again. This time it hits his head with a dull thud.

Heitor grunts, toppling onto me, and for one horrifying moment I think that he’s attacking me. I swing again, but this time when the candelabra hits him, all I hear is a soft, guttural sound. The hand at my neck slides away, and the man above me is still.

For several seconds I lay there, breathing heavily as his deadweight crushes me.

Did I … kill him?

I feel shockingly little remorse at the idea.

I’m more worried about the possibility that if he isn’t dead, he’s going to wake up andreallywant to finish what he started.

My mind is scrambled, my pulse hammering through my veins.

With a great heave, I push Heitor off of me.

He slips off the bed, landing in a heap on the hardwood floor.

Move-move-move.

I head for the door on shaky legs. It’s only once I get to the threshold that I remember the knife.

Fuck.

If Heitor wakes up,Iwant to be the one with a weapon.

I hold my breath as I hurry back for the knife, keeping my eyes trained on the lump of a man collapsed next to the bed, sure he’s going to pounce on me once I’m within reaching distance. But the body doesn’t move as my gaze scours the bed for the weapon, nor does it move when I catch sight of it in my sheets and grab it by the hilt.