Page 121 of Bitter Poetry

His nails score my skin as he yanks down the waist of my yoga pants, his panting breath fills my ears.

I hear the sound of a zipper.

God, please no!

He curses. My yoga pants are tight. I have a death grip on the front of the waist. He tugs again.

“Let go, Carmela.”

Not a chance, not willingly, not ever.

But I’m losing this battle.

My struggles excite him.

That thought hits me like a riptide, dragging me under. As my energy wanes and I become ever weaker, my looming horror grows.

CHRISTIAN

The house is dark and quiet. I tell myself I’m overreacting, that Cosmo is not this fucking stupid, but the ants never lie, and the ants say something is wrong.

The last thing I want is to wake the house up on a hunch. Mr. Gallo would not be fucking impressed, and no one will be happy if I wake up the demon sprog. I’m still waiting to hear back from the boys outside, so I make a slow sweep of the downstairs rooms. If the fucker is skulking around, I’m going to put a thumping on him.

Nothing… I tap my earpiece. “Any update?”

“Still trying to get hold of him.”

Fucking great.

I head upstairs, the only noise the occasional creak as the wood gives.

The corridor is dark and quiet in both directions. There are rooms on either side and low nightlights along the length.

All the doors are closed.

I can’t hear any sounds.

The urge to check on her, to confirm she’s tucked up safe in her bed, is strong and compelling, but I also don’t trust myself not to fuck her if I go into her room.

What the fuck is taking them so long to get a simple answer?

A dull knock emanates from the end of the corridor in the opposite direction from Carmela’s room.

I’m so hyper-focused I can’t tell if it’s real or if my ears are playing tricks.

The ants start swarming.

My earpiece crackles.“He’s still here.”

I charge toward her room. I don’t care if she’s asleep and I wake her up. The fucker is in the house somewhere, and until I know where he is, I’m waking everyone the fuck up.

The door swings open, slamming into the bedroom wall with a crash.

The bed is empty.

She’s not fucking here.

“Carmela?!”