Page 71 of Fang Fatale

Her head in my lap.

The fire burning itself into embers.

One quiet night where I get to be something besides a weapon.

The room settles around us.

Heavy.

Warm.

Safe.

I lean my head back until a knot forms in my neck.

Then...

Everything changes.

Not a sound.

Not exactly.

More like the rhythm of the universe skipping a heartbeat.

Wrong.

My fingers tighten once in her hair before I force them still.

Outside.

Someone's moving.

Slow.

Careful.

The old floorboards seem to hold their breath.

Even the fire lowers itself.

Waiting.

As gently as I can, I slide Birdie's head from my lap and ease her onto the couch, turning her away from the front windows.

She murmurs in her sleep but doesn't wake.

Good.

I reach for the tire iron resting beside the hearth.

There are better weapons upstairs.

Not enough time.

The cold steel settles comfortably into my hand.

I flatten myself against the wall.