Because, when it comes down to it, nowhere is safe for me anymore… if I was ever really safe anywhere to begin with. I used to think I was, but then again, I used to believe a lot of things that were never true.
Like, that Santa Claus brought Christmas presents, and fairy godmothers were real, and good things happened to good people, and love was something everyone deserved.
I used to believe in big houses with white picket fences, in perfect families and happy endings. I used to think what was meant to be would inevitably find a way, but as the days go by, I start to wonder if maybe I’m just delusional. Maybe things only happen if you force life’s hand. You call life’s bluff and go all in, risking losing everything on the off chance that maybe you’ll win.
My stomach is twisted in knots and my lungs burn, every breath a chore. Physical pain has nothing on emotional torment. And at least once a week—once a fucking week for the past nine months—I get that feeling in my chest, the feeling that tells me I’m somehow still alive, that my heart still exists, somewhere, continuing to beat, despite the fact that it had been brutally ripped out, stolen. Every time I go to Brooklyn, I’m reminded of the life I lost, and I hate it… I hate the feeling of helplessness, the reminder of the void, but I keep going, I keep enduring, I keep living… because the only thing worse than going to Brooklyn is me not going there.
I head into my building, trekking up to my apartment, every one of those one-hundred and eighty-six steps feeling like torture, darkness setting in by the time I reach the top. The dim lights in the halls flicker, only half of them lit. I open my apartment door and step inside, shutting it behind me, and am about to hit the light switch when movement in my peripheral stops me. It’s subtle, just a shadow shifting, not making a sound at all, but I know enough to know it’s the silent ones that are the most terrifying.
Death doesn’t always come with a scream and a bang, no… death, when premature, usually comes like a whisper on the wind, quietly stalking you until it can rob you of your last breath.
The shadow moves closer and my heart stalls a beat before frantically pounding, echoing in my ears. I react fast, reaching under my hoodie, my hand slipping beneath the band of my bra and grabbing the small butterfly knife tucked there. Whipping it out, I flick the lock off and flip it open as I swing toward the shadow, not giving it a second thought. I thrust the blade at the form lurking in the darkness, swinging and slashing, hitting something. A loud curse carries through the apartment in a gritty male voice—not the voice I expected, but son of a bitch, it’s too late to stop, because I’ve already cut him.
No turning back now.
He grabs me when I jab the blade at him again, grasping my right hand and squeezing hard to disarm me. Shit. Shit. Shit. Before he can do anything, before he can stab me with my own knife, I thrust my left hand at him, slamming the heel of my palm into his nose with every bit of strength I’ve got.
BAM.
It’s enough to get him to let go, catching him off guard, his hands protectively shielding his face as he curses again. Fuck. I’ve got ten seconds to get myself out of this before he recovers.
Ten… nine… eight…
Turning, I move toward the door to run out, the seconds ticking away.
Seven… six… five…
I grasp the knob when he grabs me, his grip strong. Fuck, make that only five seconds. He bounced back way too fast, like it didn’t even faze him. I spin his way and try to hit him again, flailing my arms, when he shoves me, throwing me against the apartment door.
His body slams into mine, forcing the air from my lungs, the knife suddenly pressing against my throat. I blink a few times, otherwise not moving, not wanting him to have some knee-jerk reaction and slit my throat on accident.
Or intentionally, either.
Jesus Christ, he could…
He might.
Although my vision is hazy and it’s pretty damn dark, I easily make out his face, my eyes scanning his features with caution, lingering on the scar. It glows in the night, like a jagged lightning bolt, the same shade as the evening moonlight streaming through the bare windows.
Scar. I still don’t know his real name. The man’s like Beetlejuice... or hell, maybe he’s Voldemort. He’s fucking Bloody Mary. Don’t dare say his name or he might show up. I get why, too. He’s not the devil you want to conjure. But I’ve dealt with a lot of evil in my short life, and this motherfucker is the least of my problems.
Or, well, he was. He’s just made his way right to the top of the list of people who want to hurt me, and he’s certainly in the position to do it. Blood streams from his nose, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about it, too fixated on staring me in the eyes, not a hint of anything in his expression.
Blank.
My eyelids flutter as he draws the slick blade along my skin, just hard enough for me to feel it, before he presses the tip of the knife against a spot on the side of my neck. I wince. Stinging pain ripples from the spot as the sharp point of the blade breaks the skin, drawing blood.
He cuts me.
“That’s twice now,” he says, leaning close to whisper those words in my ear, pinning my body against the door. The heat radiating off of him swaddles me. “Twice you’ve come at me with a knife. There won’t be a third time, Scarlet. You ever try it again, I’ll kill you. I’ll cut you to pieces while you beg me to stop.”
He turns his head, his nose brushing against my cheek, smearing his blood on me... blood I drew hitting him. I close my eyes, still not moving, the knife against my neck. It wouldn’t take more than a flick of his wrist to shove the blade in. He lingers there, the rusty copper odor of blood greeting my nostrils as it mixes with his scent. I don’t know if it’s soap or cologne or something else entirely, but the man smells citrusy, fresh and vibrant. Blood orange.
Warm breath ghosts across my skin, and I exhale shakily the second I feel his tongue. It runs along my cheek, tasting my skin, licking his blood right back off. The knots in my stomach tighten as my knees weaken, an onslaught of tingles coursing through me, assaulting my senses.
Jesus Christ, he’s demented. There’s something seriously wrong with this guy. I should be repulsed, and part of me is terrified, but that’s the part that once used to be an innocent little girl.
That’s not me anymore.
Reaching around him, I fist the hair on the back of his head, weaving my fingers through the locks and yanking hard, pulling his mouth away from my cheek. A grimace twists his expression as a flare of rage burns in his eyes. That was either a grave mistake I just made or one of the best ideas I’ve ever had in my life. Passion emanates from him like heat from a fire, warming the air between us so much I damn near start sweating as he growls.
Oh god, he growls.
The sound pulses through me, like electricity to my soul. I don’t know what the hell I’ve gotten myself into, but when he slams his body against mine again, shoving me back into the door, instinct takes over. I go with it, grabbing onto him, wrapping my arms around him as he drops the knife. It clatters to the floor between us, and I consider, for a split second, diving for it, but the thought is wiped away when he kicks it, sending the damn thing sliding across the living room. Smart.
“What turns you on more?” he asks, his hands grasping my thighs as he pulls me up. “The fighting or the fucking?”
I wrap my legs around his waist, bracing myself, clinging to him as he thrusts, the force of his hips slamming me into the shaky door. Sparks ignite inside of me as something hard rubs that sweet spot between my thighs, hitting my clit despite all of the fabric, sending jolts through my body.
Oh fuck.
“What makes you think I’m turned on?” I ask, my voice breathless, earning a chuckle from him, the sound spawning goose bumps across my skin.
“Call it a hunch.”
A gasp escapes my throat when he thrusts, again and again, like he’s fucking me with our clothes on, slamming into me with so much vigor I can barely think. I grind against him, desperate for friction, banging my head against the door as I tilt my chin, his mouth again finding my flushed skin.
His teeth nip along my jawline, biting, scraping, nothing loving about his lips, nothing sweet about his tongue, as he makes his way to my ear and whispers, “I would destroy that pussy.”