Page 30 of Make You Mine

The impulse for revenge, the wild pounding of my heartbeat, the rage that fueled every move I’ve made, I feel it all drain away as terror takes its place.

Because Chelsea isn’t just holding him. She’s cradling him against her chest with one arm like he’s precious. But in her other hand, gripped loosely but unmistakably, is a kitchen knife.

My throat goes dry. I can barely breathe let alone think. I raise a hand instinctively, not in surrender, but in that slow, careful gesture you make around wild animals.

“Chelsea,” I say cautiously. “Give me back my son, please. This doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to do this. Just give him back to me, and I’ll… I’ll let you go. No police. No more fighting. You can walk out that door. You can leave.”

For a second, the silence is so heavy I can hear Emmett’s tiny, uncertain breaths.

They’re interrupted by Chelsea’s gleeful laughter. Her smile widens, failing to reach her eyes. Those blue eyes are hollow, glassy, locked onto me like she’s seeing something entirely different.

“Why would I ever do that, my dear?” she asks, her voice syrupy and mocking. “I’m already home. This is my family, you see. This sweet boy, he’s mine. We just have a few loose ends to tie up, and then we’ll be happy together.”

She lifts the knife, and Emmett starts to cry again. I take a slow step forward, barely keeping my composure.

“Please,” I whisper, blinking against tears. “He’s just a baby. He doesn’t understand. Please, Chelsea. Please don’t hurt him. Give him to me. Let me hold him. He needs me.”

Chelsea tilts her head, considering this. And then, as if granting me a gift, she sighs. “Give him to you? Is that what you really want? Well... alright then.”

She holds him out, arm extending like she’s handing over a wrapped present. I move forward, heart crashing against my ribs, every instinct guarded. But I can’t afford hesitation, not when Emmett’s eyes find mine, red-rimmed and wet, not when I see the way his little body stiffens and squirms.

The moment he’s back in my arms, he melts into me with a whimper, tucking his face against my neck like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. I clutch him tightly, my hand cradling the back of his head, whispering that it’s okay, that I’ve got him now.

Everything’s going to be fine.

But I don’t even get to finish the thought before Chelsea lunges.

Her grin widens as she drives the knife forward, the motion fast and practiced.

I twist, turning my body as much as I can, shielding Emmett with everything I have.

The blade slams into my side—just beneath my ribs—slicing deep, stealing the breath from my lungs with a cry that tears out of me before I can stop it.

Pain blooms like wildfire, white-hot and paralyzing, but I don’t let go of my son.

I can’t .

Because if I give in now, I don’t know what she’ll do next.

Chelsea’s hand slams into my chest and shoves me backward with a force that knocks the air out of me, but it’s the searing pain in my side that almost brings me to my knees.

The wound flares, deep and unforgiving, and for a second, I can’t do anything but hold onto Emmett with every last shred of strength I have left.

“Look at you,” she sneers. “Already about to crumble.”

I stumble hard into the wall, barely catching myself with one shoulder. My body’s shaking, soaked in sweat, and I can feel the slick wetness of blood soaking through my blouse. Emmett starts to cry again, the sound driving up my panic.

“I always knew you were fragile, sweetheart,” Chelsea continues. “You’ve never deserved this family. You got lucky, that’s all. You were a placeholder. Something to move out of the way.”

She shoves me again, harder this time, and I let out a cry of pain that cracks in my throat. The world blurs and tilts. I try to stay upright, but everything hurts so much it feels like the floor is pulling me down with it, and then she wrenches Emmett from my arms.

“No… no, please…” I gasp, reaching out blindly, but it’s too late. She has him.

“And the knife,” she purrs, snatching it from my limp fingers as easily as stealing candy from a child.

I sink to the floor, unable to fight gravity another second. My legs fold beneath me, the intense pain twinging in my side.

Chelsea clutches Emmett to her chest, pacing with an eerie lightness in her step as she coos at him. He squirms in her hold, but she doesn’t seem to care. Her voice drips with venom as she turns back to me.

“You want to know something? My sister was like you. She was so weak and undeserving. She used to cry on my shoulder about the other woman Gareth was seeing. Silly girl had no idea that just hours later, it was me he was fucking in the backseat of his car. Right after I tucked little George in for bed. I babysat for them too, you know. Cooked and cleaned and took care of everything. I showed him how much better I was than her.”

The words hit me like cold water, dousing what’s left of my energy with horror. She’s more than just unstable; she’s rotten from the inside out. Every lie she told us, every smile, every moment she stood in my kitchen… it was all part of some sick, twisted performance.

My vision wavers. My hands are sticky with blood. I lean my head back against the wall and try to focus on the sound of Emmett’s soft whimpering. He’s trying to wiggle free from her arms.

She grits her teeth and unceremoniously drops him into the highchair. The clang of plastic against tile echoes through the kitchen.

“Ungrateful little brat,” she snaps. “Just like the rest of you.”

Emmett’s lip quivers as he starts to cry again.

My body, weak and racked with pain, wants so badly to move, to grab the knife or reach for my son or do something, but I can’t.

I’ve lost so much blood and can feel my blood sugar’s low. I hadn’t even recovered from yesterday’s collapse, and now here I am, suffering from more injuries.

Chelsea paces the kitchen, sparing me an occasional glance. Her lips curve into a smile so smug and satisfied it makes my skin crawl.

“You know, I discovered you and Declan a while ago. Declan works for the same company that cost Gareth his job. Isn’t that just poetic?

” she asks, hardly pausing long enough for an answer.

“Imagine my surprise when I came across such a handsome, strapping Irishman on the company website. Then I saw he’d be heading up the U.K.

division, coming here, to my village. But of course…

he was married. And his wife was beautiful. An author.”

She pauses by the kitchen sink, hands resting lightly on the counter as she tilts her head toward me, eyes gleaming.

“I read every word you wrote. Blog posts, books, articles— everything . You could say I became your biggest fan. I admired you like I admired my sister once. She seemed so perfect too. That is, until the layers were peeled back and I realized she was undeserving. She was a fraud and I was better than she was. You were given everything that should’ve been handed to me . ”

There’s no hint of irony in her voice and no self-awareness to be found. Just that bone-deep conviction that everything she’s done—all the stalking, the sabotage, the murder—is justified.

My stomach twinges in more intense, throbbing pain. I wince as more blood wets my blouse and the walls start to feel like they’ve stretched out.

I try to breathe, but it rattles out of me as a pained grunt. I’ve closed my eyes without even realizing I have. When I open them, I find her gaze already on me.

“Are you alright?” she asks sweetly, bending down. “I know what you need. Some insulin.”

“No… don’t…” My voice gives out, barely more than air. I push up from the wall, swaying unsteadily as I try to get my feet under me.

But Chelsea has already strode to the refrigerator and grabbed an insulin pen she’s likely tampered with.

She shoves me hard, sending me sprawling back against the floor with a grunt of pain. The world spins. My hands scrabble against the tiles, searching for something hold onto.

“This is how it was always going to end,” she says, matter-of-factly, as she crouches beside me. “You should be grateful, really. It’ll be quick.”

Then I see the syringe. She’s already uncapped it.

“No… please…” I twist away, trying to roll out of reach, but she pushes up my blood-soaked shirt and jams the needle into me.

My heart stutters at once, cold dread filling me at what’s about to happen.

Chelsea leans in close, brushing curls from my clammy forehead like a mother comforting a child. “There now. That’s better, isn’t it? It’ll be over very soon.”

Chelsea’s correct that the end is coming soon.

Within minutes, the compromised insulin hits me like a freight train, slamming into my bloodstream with brutal inefficiency.

The pounding in my head starts, then there’s the dizzying sensation of the floor tilting beneath me, as though the house itself is rotating.

My heart thuds erratically in my chest, too fast and too slow all at once, and my vision clouds like I’ve been dropped underwater.

Chelsea watches on with a kind of sick, gleeful satisfaction.

She kneels beside me. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of Declan. And the children. I’ll love them better than you ever could.”

It’s the last thing I hear before my body seizes up, spasming once, then twice, before everything simply… lets go. My muscles slacken. My arms fall limp at my sides. My eyes flutter shut. I stop breathing.

Or at least, I make it look that way.

I can feel her watching me. I can feel the air shift as she leans in uncertainly. Then pain spreads along my ribcage as she kicks me hard in the side. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting. She huffs a laugh.

“Such a shame she’s died so young,” she says flatly, her voice pitching up into a singsong lilt that sends a fresh spike of nausea rolling through me. “Best to bury the evidence.”

Her footsteps pad in the opposite direction. The back kitchen door creaks open as she steps into the garden, followed by rustling noises from the shed.

Metal clinks against wood. The sound of leather workman gloves snapping into place. A shovel dragged across the gravel path. She’s meticulous and pleased with herself.

Certain she’s won.

But she took her eyes off me long enough that I’ve grabbed hold of a surprise of my own.

One she doesn’t notice as I return to where she left me, seemingly lifeless on the floor.

Chelsea strides back into the kitchen, breathing heavier, as she sets down the shovel and crouches at my feet. Her gloved hands close around my ankles and she starts to drag me slowly and clumsily toward the threshold.

I give it a few seconds, and then I strike.

With every ounce of strength I have left, I surge upward, gritting my teeth against the intense pain in my abdomen, and drive the kitchen blade forward with both hands, burying it deep in the left side of her chest.

Chelsea gasps, the sound sharp and strangled, as her eyes widen and her mouth opens to spill blood. I twist the knife harder, fury surging through me as I look into her stunned face and savor every second of the moment.

“You crazy bitch!” I growl at her. “Stay the fuck away from them. They’re my family!”

She stumbles backward, fingers scrabbling at the knife handle sticking out of her chest, but it’s too late. Her knees buckle. Her body gives out. She hits the floor with a heavy thud, her eyes still wide, locked on mine in disbelief as the life drains out of her, and the kitchen falls silent.

I’d like to say I’m overcome with relief she’s dead, but it’s immediately the opposite.

My head is throbbing like it’s about to explode.

The compromised insulin has made me feel it’s a miracle I’m still conscious. That I’ve hung on out of sheer determination not to let Chelsea win.

I wince as more blood drips from my side and I know I can’t go down.

Not yet.

Emmett’s in the high chair, whining for me, his arms outstretched.

But I can’t go to him; it’s more important I find Declan or Willow. Someone who can get help.

I make it out of the kitchen half bent over, panting from how sick I feel. Slicked in blood and sweat, I’m on the brink of collapse.

By the time I make it to the second floor, I’m crawling, leaving a grim trail of blood everywhere. I manage to push the door to my bedroom open, where finally I find proof of life of my husband.

He’s bound to the bed by ropes, screaming into a gag.

I have to do this last thing. I have to undo his binds.

And then… then…

It’s what I tell myself as I crawl over, every move woozy and clumsy. I’m shaking as I struggle with the knots, feeling so ill I wouldn’t be surprised if this was it.

Fear and worry flashes in Declan’s eyes as he watches me. He clearly sees it too; how I’m running on fumes and my body’s close to giving out completely.

The knot loosens and he’s able to tug his wrist free. It’s the last thing I remember as finally I let my body surrender to the pain and trauma and hypoglycemic episode taking over.

But it’s with the knowledge that Chelsea is dead and Declan is free, which means at least the kids will be safe…