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My hip spasms and stiffens, flaring up at the worst possible moment, but I grit my teeth and force myself to move. I just need to reach that ashtray.
Before I can scramble to my feet, Sean grabs my hair again and jerks me back into him. I feel him behind me, my back plastered to his naked chest, the foot-long height difference between us only adding to the intimidation. He yanks my hair so hard I cry out, and he laughs—a cruel, unmistakable excitement in the sound.
He bends down, licks the shell of my ear, and growls, “That’s it, little dove. Sing for me. You all fight and resist, but in the end, you will surrender—writhing in a puddle of your tears, drool, and piss, begging for more of the cleansing pain.” He twists his fist again, and as much as I hate it, hate him for the way he’s getting off on my pain, I cry out again.
“You’re just like all the others. Only fit to be used and broken.” His other fist joins in, making me wince in pain.
“Are you going to beg, or do you want to play some more?” he breathes into my ear.
“Please,” I yell. “Please.”
He only twists harder.
I can’t take it anymore. Driven by pure adrenaline and self-preservation, I swing high and back with all my might. This time, he’s not fast enough to untangle his hands from my thick, curly hair and stop my swinging arm. It connects with a satisfying squelch.
Sean’s howl of pain is unlike any sound I’ve heard from a human before. He reels back, his hands falling away from my hair. And then he’s whimpering like a wounded dog. I’m almost too terrified to turn and see what I’ve done to him.
But I turn. And promptly retch onto the floor.
Blood streams down his face, and the bowl of the spoon is protruding from his black eye. The handle is lodged squarely in his eyeball. He rocks in agony, one trembling hand hovering over his injured eye, the other flailing wildly, fingers opening and closing reflexively as if desperate to grab hold of me.
My whole body trembles as adrenaline courses through me. What the fuck have I just done? I want to sob because it’s far from fucking over. He’s lost an eye, but that blow won’t kill him. If this man gets his hands on me, I’m a dead woman.
Either I end this now, or he snaps my neck.
I try to dart around him toward the ashtray, but Sean lunges for me. My fingers brush the handle just as his hand closes around my neck and jerks me backward with such force that my legs give out and I crash to the floor.
His body follows me down. “My eye! You fucking evil bitch, I’ll kill you! I’ll pluck out your eyes and feed them to you!”
Instantly, he’s on top of me, his good eye wild with tears of pain and rage, while the black one weeps rivulets of blood down the length of the jutting spoon, dropping onto me. His hand finds my throat, fingers digging in.
“Did the Irish put you up to this?” I nod, and he squeezes harder. “I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all.”
It’s like déjà vu—the feeling of being choked, fighting for air. But this time, we’re not sparring. This time, it’s not a measured punishment delivered by a man who knows my limits. This is an enraged beast who won’t stop until I stop breathing.
“Who fucking sent you?” he spits at me. I grab his unrelenting hand, nails scratching his wrist, but he only tightens his grip.
Shit.
My lungs burn with the need to breathe, and my face starts to tingle. I slam the ashtray on the floor, shattering it. I hoped the action would distract him, but instead, he squeezes harder. I blindly reach for a shard, welcoming the way it slices into the flesh of my palm.
It’s probably useless to penetrate his skin, let alone stab through his chest, but I have to try something. My darkening vision zeroes in on the soft spot just below his dangling, stretched earlobe.
“Dante . . .” I sputter over and over as my instincts take over. Sean pauses, then bends his head to hear me, allowing me to drag in a breath before he tightens his grip again.
“I said give me a fucking name,” he wheezes.
I repeat Dante’s name, but it only comes out as a muffled sound.
The moment Sean leans in closer, I swing my arm up and jab the shard into the angle of his jaw, driving it in with all my might and then some.
There’s a sickening pop, followed by pain like I’ve never felt before, exploding in my shoulder. I scream with the first breath that rushes into my lungs, oblivious to the warm, coppery blood spraying over me like a macabre shower.
Sean’s eyes widen in shock, his hands flying to his throat. Blood bubbles from his mouth as he tries to speak.
I roll him off me, scrambling back until I hit the wall. I watch in horror as he thrashes on the floor, gurgling and choking on his own blood. It feels like an eternity before he finally goes still.
The silence that follows is oppressive. I sit there, shaking, covered in sweat and blood—mine and Sean’s. My cheek throbs, my shoulder feels like someone took a mallet to it, my hip aches, and every breath hurts. But I’m alive.
