Page 105 of Can't Stop Watching

NO!

I can't think like that. I won't. Lila's strong, stronger than she knows. She'll fight. She has to.

Thirty-one, thirty-two. The doors open with a cheerful 'ding' that feels like a slap in the face. I step out, my gun a reassuring weight in my hand. The hallway stretches before me, a gauntlet of closed doors and heavy silence.

Wrong. All wrong.

But whatever's waiting, failure isn't an option.

33

LILA

Brian's hands press around my throat, his fingers digging into my skin like steel hooks. My vision blurs at the edges, panic rising like a tidal wave.

Not again. Not again.

My lungs scream for air as his face hovers inches from mine, eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "Isn't this what you want? Attention from powerful men?"

Fuck that.

In one desperate move, I slam my palm upward against his elbow joint, breaking his grip just enough to gasp a breath. Then I drive my knee up between his legs with every ounce of strength I can muster.

Direct hit.

Brian doubles over, his smug expression crumpling into shocked pain. I don't waste the opportunity. Spinning sideways, I slam my elbow into his face, exactly how the campus security instructor demonstrates in the self-defense workshop I drag Tessa to every semester.

"Fuck you, asshole!" I rasp, my throat burning.

Brian staggers but catches himself against the conference table. Blood trickles from his nose, staining his pristine white shirt.

"You stupid bitch," he snarls.

I scramble backward, desperate to put space between us. My heartbeat hammers in my ears as Brian recovers, his face twisting into something inhuman, that perfect MBA smile replaced by animal rage.

"We could have done this the easy way," he says, straightening his tie like we're still in some professional setting. Like he's not planning to do God knows what to me.

I edge toward the door, though I know it's locked. My hand grips the doorknob anyway—some stupid animal instinct to escape. Brian lunges forward, his designer shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

I pivot to dodge, but his foot hooks around my ankle.

My knees crack against the floor, pain shooting up my legs. My purse flies open, contents scattering—lipstick, wallet, tampons, pens—all the mundane items of my life spreading across the floor like evidence at a crime scene.

My fingers close around one of my pens—the good metal one Tessa gave me for my birthday. Black ink, silver body, surprisingly heavy. "A real journalist needs a real pen," she'd said.

I push myself up, the pen gripped tight in my palm, its tip protruding between my fingers like a makeshift knife. I back away, keeping my eyes locked on Brian. His chest heaves, nostrils flaring like some Wall Street bull ready to charge.

Brian wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, smearing it across his perfectly chiseled jawline. His eyes—cold as January in New York—never leave mine as he tries to compose himself. I keep backing away, circling toward the windows instead of the useless door.

"I thought you liked a challenge," I say, gripping my pen tighter. "But now you just look all rumpled and pathetic."

His eye twitches. Yeah, you asshole, get mad. Angry people make mistakes.

"Look at you… expensive suit with blood on the collar. What are people going to say when they see you got your ass kicked?"

Part of me screams this is stupid. Don't poke the bear. But I'm done being the frightened girl from New Orleans. Done being the one who freezes.

"They might actually realize what kind of monster you are?" I force a mocking smile. "And they won't only talk about Yale, but also about Sarah Keller?"