Page 7 of In Death’s Hands (The Threads of Fate #1)

The therapist that was appointed to me by the state after the people who had just adopted me passed said I was a survivor.

Most days I do feel like one. I figured, since I seem to have more chances of being offed by something random than anybody else, I should enjoy life to the fullest. I know, I know, you only live once and all that shit.

Most people saying that just want to have it tattooed on their butt and think of themselves as great thinkers of our world.

Revolutionaries that are better than everyone else worried about their mortgages.

But when you almost die as many times as I have, you kinda see the world differently, and though I wouldn’t use that saying if you paid me, I do tend to believe and live by its principle. Most days.

Today is not that day. Today I just want to bury myself under every blanket I own and watch Netflix.

As I’m about to do just that, something catches my attention in the mirror.

And it is not the fact that I look like the life has been sucked out of me.

I frown and step closer to my reflection.

There. Depending on how I face the weak lighting above the mirror, I see what made me pause.

Between my breasts is the strangest thing.

It could be a star-shaped scar if it didn’t glow red.

I put my hand on it and suck in a sharp breath. It feels warm.

Like a word you repeat until it loses all meaning, I stare at that bright spot on my chest until I’m convinced I’m making things up. Say it with me this time: I blame the concussion.

Hours later, my plan to sleep until the end of the world is rudely interrupted by heavy knocks on my door.

Frowning, I fight my way out of my clingy blanket.

It’s only once I’m swinging the door open that I realise I’m only wearing knickers and an oversized T-shirt.

Okay, fine, it’s Nathan’s shirt. But it was there, and big, and smelled of him. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t.

Before I can yell at whoever’s decided to wake me, something solid connects with my face.

My ears start ringing and something warm gathers at my lips.

Blood. Shock contracts my lungs and I’m gasping, choking on nothing, trying to force air down my throat.

My eyes can’t focus and I feel my brain working overtime, trying to make sense of what’s happening.

Before any answer can form, another blow lands on my stomach, effectively blocking any air that was slowly working its way back into my system.

I fall to the ground, or maybe I’m pushed.

I can’t really tell. And through the ringing pain in my head, I hear angry voices.

I’m too far gone to understand what’s being said, but cold, undiluted fear spreads through my limbs. What is happening?

I hear shuffling. I think someone else has entered my flat.

I am shaking all over and trying to figure out if I should play dead or call out for help.

If they’re here to rob me I don’t care, but maybe they’ll try to hurt me.

From what I hear, fear slowly sharpening my senses, there are now two guys in my flat.

They could do anything to me before anyone ever knew something was wrong.

I swallow the sob and push it all the way back down.

Deep where those men will never hear it. I will not give them the satisfaction.

“Is that her?” one asks, sending alarm bells ringing in my head.

What could they want with me? I squeeze my eyes shut before activating the mean-bitch switch.

I am not weak. I refuse to lie down and let things happen to me again.

Ignoring the furious shakes raking my body, I slowly untangle my arms from where they protectively wrapped themselves around my middle and put my hands to the ground.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see them looking at a picture, offering me precious seconds to study their frames.

One is taller than the other, but both are wide and big enough to knock me out without much effort.

There is no way I can fight these guys. I’ve taken self-defence classes over the years—with everything that’s happened to me, I’d have been crazy not to—but the number-one lesson they teach is to get out of a bad situation by any means necessary and run like hell.

A scary part of me wants to make them pay for the terror coursing through me, for the tears I cannot stop flowing down my cheeks.

From the nightmares that are sure to plague me should I survive.

The rage is harder to swallow than ever before when I have two people to blame right here, instead of simply blaming whatever poor luck or curse I may have.

Harnessing that rage, I pull myself up onto my knees while they are distracted, arguing about whether or not I’m the “her” they’re after.

I squeeze my eyes shut once, twice, but the ground is still unsteady under my legs.

The ringing is overtaking everything once more as blood rushes out of my head.

I force a deep breath into my lungs, but blinding pain threatens to take me down once more. I ignore it and try to move away.

That was a mistake. The shorter man suddenly turns to me and starts shouting. I don’t focus on the words, for I am scrambling to get on my feet, my body screaming in pain and panic.

I’m going through the door when a huge hand wraps itself around my arm and throws me to the floor.

I land on my back, my vision blacking out for a second and coming back to focus on the big, ugly face of an unshaved man with a scar down his cheek.

I don’t know why I focus on his scabbed scar when his hands are squeezing my neck, but I do.

Years of lessons finally kick in, my body reacting out of habit more than from any conscious order I give.

My shoulders go up and my chin goes down on his hands, allowing a blessed trickle of air down my throat.

In a move I’ve repeated over a hundred times with different body types on top of me, I lock my left leg over his and push my right hip up as far and as fast as it will go, adrenaline overriding the pain and fuelling the movement.

A flicker of surprise shines in his brown eyes as he falls on his back, but I don’t stay to discuss self-defence moves, or even kick him in the nuts.

As soon as I’m free, I’m back on my feet and running out of my place.

I’ve made another mistake, however. I forgot about the second guy.

Before I can start down the stairs, two arms catch me around my middle, picking me up like I weigh nothing until my feet can’t feel the ground.

I kick and scream so loud I wonder why no one has come to my aid yet.

I hear the guy swearing as I kick his knees over and over again.

His big hand tries to cover my mouth but I bite it so hard I taste blood.

His, this time. The pleasure I feel is quickly overridden by panic as he walks backwards to drag me into my apartment.

Despair is like a heavy cloak slowing everything down.

Like a movie scene in slow motion, I hear someone shouting, and a tingle of recognition runs down my spine.

I’m still fighting with everything I’ve got, and I swear the whole building is shaking from my rage.

The man turns to try to shut my door, but a hand stops it and forces it open like it’s nothing.

Like my two attackers aren’t actively pushing it shut.

A head crowned with dark hair and blessed by eyes where the universe shines through comes into view and a whimper escapes me.

Everything is still so slow. I see him take in the scene, his face becoming that of an ancient god of vengeance, his eyes sparking with fury.

The light dims and I could swear there’s black smoke coming out of Nathan.

Incomprehensible shouts hurt my ears. I notice one of my attackers putting his hands up in a placating move as he backs away, but the room gets darker and darker and I’m suddenly out of the man’s hold, too fast for my legs to catch me.

So, for what feels like the hundredth time in twenty-four hours, my heart rises in my chest as my body loses the battle against gravity.

My ankle is the first to fold under my weight with a loud crack as the rest follows.

But before I meet the ground, strong arms catch me.

I don’t fight it this time. For some reason my body trusts those arms.

The last thing I see is Nathan’s anguished face as he stares down at me, and what looks like an army of shadows at his back.