Page 41 of The Birthday Girl

The knife slid from her hand and skittered across the floor, banging into the coffee-table leg. Her forehead met the table, pain exploded behind her eyes, and a high, relentless ring filled her ears.

“I can’t let you hurt my baby,” Danielle rasped, her voice small, but fierce as she frantically moved toward the hall, using the wall to help her move forward.

Tahlia tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled and the world tilted sideways. Her knees buckled beneath her, then she crumpled awkwardly to the floor, half on her side, half face-down, and for a long, stunned moment, she could only lie there.

The bedroom door was cracked open when Danielle reached it, a sliver of nightlight cutting the darkness. She stumbled inside the bedroom and pushed her hand under the blanket. Her fingers closed on the swaddled bundle, and she hauled her Tyricka free, pinning her to her chest.

Tahlia’s eyes narrowed, fury braided with panic into a single, ugly focus. The ringing in her ears thinned into a distant hiss. She forced her hands under her and pushed herself upward. Pain lanced her forehead with every inch she gained, the ache giving her strength.

She rolled to her knees, braced one foot under the coffee table, and hauled herself upright on a breath that tasted like blood. Her legs trembled but held, and she didn’t permit herself to think about the split in her skull.

Tahlia moved forward, using the edge of the couch for balance. She grabbed the fallen knife from where it had landed. It was time to finish the job.

Danielle was half through the doorway, the baby pressed to her chest, bare feet slapping the floor in a stumble that was part sprint and part limp.

Tahlia roared as she closed the distance between them in three long strides. Before Danielle could exit her home, she reached for her hair and yanked it.

“Where do you think you’re going, bitch? This isn’t over!” Tahlia shouted as she tossed Danielle on the floor.

Danielle clutched the baby tight against her chest, shielding her with one trembling arm as Tahlia stepped forward, lowering the blade for another strike. Summoning more strength, Danielle shoved hard, and their bodies crashed into the wall in a violent tangle.

With her free hand, Danielle’s nails raked down Tahlia’s face, leaving raw, burning furrows as the baby shrieked between them. “Please,” she begged, voice breaking. “Please, Tahlia. Don’t—”

Tahlia laughed, a hard, broken sound, and then she swiped at the arm cradling the baby. Danielle twisted, torquing her body to shield the infant, and slipped. Her side slammed into the floor, and pain shot through her ribs, but she didn’t drop the baby.

The infant’s shriek cut the air, the sound pulling Danielle back from the edge. She kicked when Tahlia dashed forward, knocking her off balance, then hauled herself up and stumbled toward the living room, every step a fight.

Blood blurred the floor into red lines, but Danielle never loosened her hold. She wrapped her free arm around the baby tighter until the little body was a warm, furious weight against her ribs.

Tahlia lunged again, and their hands met over the infant like two storms colliding.

Danielle punched, not with technique but with pure, animal instinct.

Her fist caught Tahlia’s jaw, and Tahlia staggered long enough for Danielle to slip past her.

She limped through the living room, then to the bedroom, where beams of street light sliced through the blinds in narrow slats.

She rushed to the window, but her adrenaline was depleting, replaced by agonizing pains that dragged her down.

She collapsed onto the bed, the baby still clutched tight to her chest. Warmth spread across her shirt, copper flooded her mouth, but she held on with the grip of a mother desperate to protect her child.

Tahlia stood in the doorway, watching, chest heaving, hanging low, her own body trembling as if the fight had drained her too.

“I hate you,” Tahlia said, voice flat and ragged. “I hate everything about you, especially how you thought everyone would pick you over me.”

Danielle rocked, breath coming in sharp, shallow pulls as she stared at her sister with an expression that was neither surrender nor triumph. “I picked Tyriq,” she whispered. “And he picked me over you. That’s why I have his baby and you don’t.”

Tahlia took a slow step forward, and the baby’s cry filled the silence between them as if she knew her time was up.

“If that were the case, you wouldn’t have needed Shanice to do your dirty work. He didn’t want you. You know it, and I know it. Cut the bullshit.”

Knowing it was true, Danielle pressed her cheek to the infant’s head and sobbed, soundless at first, then raw.

She knew she couldn’t run, and that she wouldn’t survive what had already been done, but she would hold on for her baby until she couldn’t.

That was the least she could do, considering she had put her in this situation.

Tahlia watched her for a long moment, satisfaction flickering across her face, and then she turned away without another word.

The door clicked shut behind her with a sound both final and small.

The baby’s wail cut through the room, and Danielle kept holding, breathing into the tiny neck, counting each of her heartbeats.

When she heard her front door slam, relief washed over her in a shaky wave. She thought it was over. She thought Tahlia was finished.

But outside, a trunk closed, and footsteps pounded back toward the house. Tahlia was far from done.

She returned to the bedroom with a heavy bag in hand, her eyes bright with intent. She set the bag on the floor beside the bed and began to unpack it piece by piece.

Danielle’s blood went cold when she realized her sister hadn’t left her to die. She had left only to prepare her for what came next.

“You don’t get to torture me as a kid, sleep with my man, have his bastard child, and think there would be no consequences for your actions,” Tahlia growled as she positioned her tools in a methodical order.

“Try not to die too soon. We’re about to have some fun.”