Friggin’ Batman! His voice is smooth and deep, laced with a casual snark that feels entirely out of place.
I don’t flinch. I like things out of place. When things don’t fit, it validates my wreck of a life. “Depends.” I jerk my chin toward him. “On a scale of one to serial killer, how worried should I be about you?”
The corner of his mouth ticks upward. “Touché.” He offers a relaxed wave.
And just like that, he’s past me, his steady footfalls fading into the rain. For some reason, I find myself glancing over my shoulder. Because my traitorous ovaries have apparently decided now is an excellent time to remind me that attractive men exist.
I force my hand to relax its white-knuckled grip on the knife in my waistband. Just a guy. I let out a shaky breath. A smartass, sex-on-a-tattooed-meatstick guy getting his steps in. Totally normal for 2 A.M.
I pick up my pace again, shaking off the weird, electric tension. My thoughts drift back to the apartment. It’s two o’clock. The landlord is gone. The transaction is over. My mother is passed out. The familiar, burning rage flares in my chest again.
I push harder, rounding a sharp bend where the trees press in on both sides.
The attack comes from above and behind, an explosion of movement. I have no time to react when the thick, bulky arm lands like a steel bar across my collarbone, jerking me back with bone-jarring force. A massive, calloused hand clamps over the lower half of my face, crushing my lips against my teeth.
“Gotcha,” a voice rasps in my ear. The smell hits me like a physical blow—sour body odor, wool, and the distinct, coppery stink of old blood.
Panic surges through my veins, paralyzing me.
My feet slip in the mud as he drags me off the trail and into the dense underbrush. I kick wildly, my sneakers thrashing. I scream, but it’s muffled behind his smothering palm.
“Stop moving!” he snarls, throwing me down hard.
My back hits the muddy earth with a wet thud, knocking the wind from my lungs. Before I can even attempt to suck in a breath, his massive weight falls on top of me, pinning my hips to the ground. I choke on a cough.
He presses even harder on my mouth, pinching my nose shut, intentionally thinning my breath. Black spots riddle my vision.
“Told you to stop struggling,” he hisses, completely unhinged in the darkness. “Make it worse for yourself. Spoil our fun.”
He fumbles, moving for the leather belt at his waist.
Oh, God, no.
Terror curdles my blood. My lungs burn. My arms flail, one hand slapping against my hip, sliding over the slick fabric of my leggings. My fingers find the metal clip.
I rip the folding knife from my waistband. I don’t have time to think. Much less blink. I flick my thumb against the stud, the five-inch blade locking into place. I drive my arm upward in a blind, desperate arc. The blade sinks deep into the soft flesh of his side, below his ribs. Nothing but pure, mad survival.
The man freezes. A sharp, wet gasp tears from his throat. The palm over my mouth loosens enough for me to drag in a ragged, desperate gust of freezing air.
Shock registers on his face as he stares in the darkness, unable to comprehend what has happened.
I yank the knife out.
His hand flies down to press against the wound. The realization hits him. The shock warps into an ugly mask of absolute fury. “You fucking bitch,” he roars, curling his fingers into a fist aimed straight for my face.
And in that split second, as he swings, something inside me shatters. The panic evaporates. The terror vanishes. Now…it’s wrath. A bottomless, volcanic fury that’s been building inside me for years. It’s the wrath from every sleazy smile from the landlord. Every sneering asshole, every degrading comment, every suffocating black hoodie I force myself to wear to exist in the world without being devoured.
I’m not going to be devoured. Not tonight. Not ever.
My arm shoots up, blocking his fist. The impact sends a shockwave of pain up to my shoulder, but I don’t care. I shove upward with my hips, using his off-balance momentum against him, screaming out my rage.
I drive the knife forward again. This time, it sinks into his shoulder.
He howls, twisting away, but I’m already moving. The survival instinct is gone. I pull the blade free and drive it into his chest. Then his collarbone. Again. And again.
The sickening thwack of the blade finding its mark over and over is the only sound in the world. Gritted teeth. A monster in my blood. A storm behind my eyes. I stab him until his weight goes slack, until hot, sticky blood coats my skin and clothes, mixing with the freezing rain.
I sit up, my chest heaving, and shove his lifeless body off me. He rolls onto his back in the mud, staring blankly at the sky.
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Rook by Hannah Rio
