Page 15 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

I should have known today would be the day Duvall crosses the line.

He just couldn’t stop himself.

His restraint ran out.

I grip the spatula so hard my fingers ache. Butter drips from the edge, coating my fingers.

“Come on now, sweetheart.” He steps closer, his boots squelching against the tile, still wet from the rain. “No need to make this difficult.”

My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat. I know what he wants. He’s wanted it ever since he first saw me four months ago, hovering like a moldy curse I just can’t scrub out. It wasn’t enough to act like a king in my own damn house, to threaten me and Mark, to show up uninvited and force me to cook for him like he’s some kind of medieval fucking lord.

No, he needs more.

And the worst part?

He was always going to take it. I knew it. Mark knew it. And Mark still left the house. He knew what would happen, and he still walked out the damn door, leaving me here alone with this monster.

The spatula trembles in my grip. The scent of frying eggs turns my stomach. Duvall takes another step.

“You know,” he says, his voice a lazy drawl, “I always liked that fire in you.”

I tighten my grip. It feels like that’s all I can do.

“I’ll scream,” I say, forcing the words past the knot in my throat.

He chuckles, slow and lazy, like he’s savoring the moment. “I bet on it.” Then he spreads his arms, all magnanimous, and licks his crusty lips. “But I wonder why? You think Mark’s gonna come running? You think your neighbors give a damn?”

The words dig deep into me. They're cold and sharp, sliding under my skin like a needle. They stitch together every fear I’ve swallowed, every moment I let myself believe I was safe.

He’s right. We’re alone. Him and me.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll go down easy.

The spatula is useless. A joke. It’s shaking so badly in my grip that even if I swung, it’d be more insult than injury. My eyes dart past him to the block of knives on the counter. Too far. He’d see me coming.

Duvall steps closer.

I step back.

The heel of my foot hits the cabinet.

There’s nowhere left to go.

Fear spikes, adrenaline flooding my veins. My body is screaming to move—duck, run, do literally anything—but he’s too fast. His hand shoots out, latching onto my wrist, squeezing so hard my fingers go numb. The spatula I’d been holding clatters to the floor like a useless little traitor. His other hand lands on my waist, rough and possessive.

I thrash, twisting, shoving at him, but I might as well be fighting a sentient brick wall. His breath is hot and reeking of beer against my face as he simply pins me down.

“Get off me!” I snarl, nails digging into his forearm.

He grunts, more annoyed rather than hurt.

“Always so feisty,” he murmurs, his grip tightening. “You turn me on, sweetheart.”

Panic claws up my throat as he shoves me back against the counter. The edge digs into my spine. His fingers push beneath the fabric of my shirt as he tries to rip the material off me.

I twist, bringing my knee up, but he’s ready for it—shifting his weight, pressing me down harder, making leverage impossible.

And then, he says it.

“You've always been feistier than that pussy of your husband.”

His voice is low. Mocking.

He continues.

“There’s so much anger in you… so much grit—”

I cut him off by slamming my forehead straight into his nose. Crunch.

He lets out an ungodly noise—somewhere between a swear and a grunt that terrifies me. But his grip loosens just enough for me to shove him with all my strength.

He crashes into the table, knocking over his beer bottle. It topples to the floor and shatters into tiny little pieces.

I don’t waste a second. I spin, bolting for the door.

Mark is right outside. My husband. My only ally.

We have our differences, but surely… he doesn’t mean for this to happen.

He’s going to help me.

If he just sees me—

If I can just—

A hand fists in my hair, yanking me back so hard I cry out. My scalp screams, my feet skid, and then—

Duvall slams me into the fridge with enough force to create bruises up my spine. My head cracks against the metal. Stars explode behind my eyes.

“You like it rough, huh?” he spits, blood dripping from his nose. “Don't worry. I'll give it to you.”

I gasp for breath, my vision swimming. The kitchen door is still open. The window above the sink gives a clear view of the backyard.

Mark stands outside, his back to me, a cigarette between his fingers.

“Mark,” I croak. Barely a whisper. He doesn’t turn.

The rain patters against the windowpane, the glass streaked with droplets. His shoulders are hunched, head tilted slightly downward, like he’s lost in thought. Like he doesn’t hear what’s happening inside.

But he must. He must .

“Mark!” I try again, louder. “Help me!”

He turns.

For a split second, our eyes meet through the window.

He sees me. My tear-streaked face. Duvall’s hand still fisted in my hair. My shaking limbs.

His expression doesn't change.

No shock. No fury. No guilt.

Just… nothing.

And then, without a word, he turns back around.

My world shatters.

Duvall chuckles, low and smug, his breath fanning against my cheek.

“Told you,” he murmurs. “Ain’t nobody coming for you. I've got you all to myself.”

A sound catches in my throat.

Is this it? Is this what I mean to him?

Am I truly… alone?

Duvall’s hand lands on my hip, fingers digging into my flesh. They knead and bruise and twist.

Something inside me snaps.

My hand shoots out, grabbing the nearest thing—the salt shaker—and I hurl it into Duvall's face with all the strength I have left. He yells, cursing as the salt stings his eyes, his grip loosening.

I don’t hesitate.

I twist, wrenching out of his hold, and my fingers finally close around something solid.

The cast iron pan.

I swing it.

The impact shudders through my arms as the pan smashes into the side of his head with a sickening thunk. Duvall staggers back, his eyes closing for a split second. But then he opens them back again and looks me straight in the eye.

“Oh, you bitch,” he grinds out.

I try to take advantage of the opening. I try to hit him again, to do more than just stun him—but he’s faster. His hand shoots out, catching my wrist mid-swing. The pan clatters to the floor, and he’s on me in a second.

He twists my arm behind my back, and his other hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back until my neck screams in protest.

But I still have one hand free.

I don’t think.

I claw at his face, my nails raking across his cheek, catching on the split skin of his nose. He curses, shoving me so hard I crash to the floor. My elbow slams against the tile, a sharp burst of pain, but I barely notice it.

He looms over me, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand.

“I'm going to make it extra painful now. You've got it coming.”

He's disgusting. So fucking disgusting...

I scramble backward, my hands slipping against the spilled beer, my skin digging into glass. But my fingers close around something cold and solid.

The broken neck of the beer bottle.

That’s all I think about. Not the pain.

The glass bites into my palm as I grip the jagged edge, ignoring the sting, the warmth of my own blood mingling with the beer. Duvall steps forward, his shadow swallowing me whole, but this time, I don’t cower. I don’t wait.

I lunge.

The bottle plunges into his thigh.

His scream rips through the kitchen, raw and guttural. He staggers back, eyes wide, disbelieving. Blood wells around the glass, spilling dark over his jeans. His hand shoots down to the wound, fingers trembling as they brush the shard embedded in his flesh.

“You—” His voice is a broken snarl. “You little—”

I don’t let him finish.

I’m up in an instant, my body moving on pure survival. I grab the bottle lodged in his thigh, yank it free, and swing again. This time, I don’t aim for his leg. I go for his throat .

The glass slices across his neck in a crimson arc.

A wet, gurgling sound fills the kitchen. Blood pours out, thick and dark, soaking his shirt, his hands, and the tile. He stumbles, one hand clutching the wound, the other reaching for me.

I shove him. Hard.

He stumbles back, crashes into the counter, then crumples to the floor.

The only sound left is the ragged rhythm of my breathing.

I don’t move. Don’t blink. I watch as he twitches once. Twice. Then stills.

The blood spreads, oozing between the cracks of the tile, staining my hands, my clothes.

“What…” I whisper, watching the crimson spread, inching toward my feet and soaking into my socks.

A distant sound registers in the haze of my mind.

Footsteps.

I snap my head up, my heart pounding in my chest.

Mark.

He's still outside, still puffing on that damn cigarette like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just give me over to another man.

I should scream for him again. Should call the police. Should do something other than sit here, soaked in Duvall’s blood, clutching the broken bottle like a lifeline.

But I don’t move.

Because something inside me changes.

Slowly, I let go of the glass, letting it fall with a clatter onto the tile next to Duvall's body. My hands shake as I press them to the floor, trying to steady myself, trying to process the harsh, jagged truth slicing through my thoughts.

No one came to save me.

Not Mark. Not the neighbors. Not anyone.

I saved myself.

I killed a man who tried to rape me.

Duvall is dead.