Chapter 17 Bunny - Two Years Ago
Two Years Ago
Nathaniel’s wild eyes blaze with palpable fury. His nostrils flare, skin flushed red with anger—likely as hot as his palm—when he strikes me across the face. My freshly healed scar stings, the skin stretching uncomfortably as my head whips to the side.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” My husband’s tone is deadly calm, a complete contradiction to his outrage. It sets my nerves on edge, the frayed ends humming with adrenaline as I crabwalk away, even though my limbs keep giving out.
“I–I didn’t—”
“No. You didn’t, did you, Bunny?” he sneers, voice sardonically sweet. “You thought you’d get an abortion and I wouldn’t find out? You’re lucky you didn’t go through with it.”
“I don’t want a baby.” Pressing the back of my hand to my swollen cheek, I use the counter to stand. “And I want a divorce.”
I’m done.
I’ve had enough.
The last few weeks have been hell, almost as if Nathaniel looked up how to abuse your pregnant wife without harming the baby. He’s grabbed me, bruised me, pinched me, pulled my hair, and fucked me every chance he’s had.
Still punishing me for Hunter. Still driving home that I’m his wife and there’s nothing I can do to change that.
Nathaniel smirks, rubbing his thumb along his bottom lip as he turns his head and chuckles. I don’t dare take my eyes off him as I run my hand along the counter, searching for anything to fend him off.
“You’re so fucking ungrateful. I picked you up out of the gutter and gave you a better life.”
Two strides and he’s pressing me into the counter, my back bowing, his face in mine as spittle speckles my cheek. I try to push him away, but he grips my throat and forces me to look at him.
“And how do you repay me? By fucking some other guy and trying to get rid of our baby? And now you’re trying to leave? What—do you think Hunter is going to take you in? A street rat who was nothing before I found her. You were nothing, Bunny!”
My neck aches under his hand. He’s careful not to cut off my airway completely, but his fingers dig in like he’s trying to rip out my trachea. Panic mixes with adrenaline, giving me a last surge of strength as I struggle to get free.
I want to scream that no, I don’t think Hunter will take me in. He seems to have given up after numerous attempts at begging me to leave—smart enough to know what happens within these walls. Yet he stopped reaching out two weeks ago. He never came back for me.
None of that matters. All that matters is I won’t be a punching bag anymore. Since the gala it’s only gotten worse. Any minuscule drop of love I had evaporated when we found out I was pregnant.
What happens if I bring his baby into this world? Will he take his anger out on them? Keep beating me? Will my child grow up in an abusive home, learning a warped definition of love—or that women are objects to be used and discarded?
No. I refuse to add to the list of statistics I’ve already become.
With every ounce of strength I possess, I launch my weight into Nathaniel, successfully knocking him back a few steps. He grins, laughs, tightens his fist, preparing to knock me back. “I love it when you fight. It reminds me of the feral thing you were when we met.”
Using the momentum as he shoves me, I grab his arm and pivot left, bringing me closer to the dinner I’d been prepping when he got home.
Rump roast.
The knife is too far. My nails dig into the meaty top layer of the still-semi-frozen slab, threatening to break under its weight.
Nathaniel realizes my intention a moment too late as I swing the marbled meat into his face, hard enough that he drops me.
Before he can recover, I swing again, a war cry rumbling in my throat.
This time, I knock him off balance. I swing again. Something cracks. Euphoria floods me as I realize I have the upper hand. The roast squishes in my grip, the icy core numbing my fingertips as I drop and straddle his dazed form.
“This is for every time you put your hands on me!” I bring the meat down on his face. A satisfying crunch rewards me as blood bursts in cascading rivulets from his nose.
“This is for every time you fucked another woman while we were married!” Something gives as I strike again.
A pained cry gurgles from his throat, but I give him no reprieve.
I want him to feel everything—every ounce of pain, every blow, every bone as it caves.
He never once gave me a break when he was beating me. He’ll find no mercy here.
“This is for trying to make me carry a child I don’t want!” Nausea swells violently in my stomach as the center of his facial cavity ruptures and sinks in. Blood sprays, coating me, arcing over the floor, splattering the stainless-steel appliances. Adrenaline stomps the sick feeling down for later.
“And this!”
Smash.
“This is for every—”
Smush.
“—single time you made me—”
Squelch.
“—feel like it was all my fault!”
By the time I finish, my fingers are buried to the second knuckle. Bits of roast mash away, mixing with the pulped mass of bone, blood, and cartilage that was Nathaniel’s face.
My lungs burn as I gulp air around a shudder, my neck tender where he grabbed me. Falling back onto my butt between his legs, I finally let the tears come.
I cry because I just committed murder.
I cry because I’m finally free.
But most of all, I cry because pregnancy hormones suck, and I have hated every second of growing another body inside mine so far.
It must be nearly twenty minutes I sit with my fingers stabbed into the rump roast like it’s a hand muff. My tears give way to hysterical laughter as I remember the criminal who chopped up bodies and broke them down in pressure cookers.
I just became like him… a killer.
Because of course Nathaniel had to take my last shred of innocence, too.
“Hey, Siri,” I call. Thankfully it’s close enough to hear me from the kitchen table. I wait for the soft robotic prompt. “Call Sergeant Rhodes.”
Reality settles in as the line begins to ring.
I killed someone. I killed my husband. I’m a murderer.
“Bunny? Is everything okay?” Hunter’s frantic voice fills my ear after the third ring, triggering fresh tears as the adrenaline ebbs.
“Hunter.” His name is shaky as I try not to sob. Copper pools in my mouth, a metallic tang as my teeth dig into my bottom lip.
“Where are you? I’ll be right there.”
Always so in tune with my feelings. He knows with just a simple utterance of his name that I need him. That’s all it takes for him to come to my rescue.
I should’ve left with him when I had the chance.
“Home.” The single word rasps out, hoarse and wet.
“Don’t move. I’m on my way.”
I can’t move, though I try. Shock sinks in, my blood turning cold as Nathaniel’s begins to coagulate.
And that’s how Hunter finds me.
Sitting on my kitchen floor, the roast still skewered on my fingers, in a pool of sticky blood and dried tears.
Hunter
Holy fuck.
Even if Bunny had told me what happened before I arrived, I don’t think anything could have prepared me for this.
Blood. Is. Everywhere. And Bunny is in the middle of it, staring at Nathaniel’s body, her eyes flat and haunted.
It takes far too long to realize the lump of meat between her hands isn’t part of her husband’s face. I’m ashamed I have to take a few gulps of clean air before stepping into the kitchen, which smells like the inside of a butcher shop.
“Bunny?” I approach carefully, not wanting to startle her.
She’s in shock—her small frame trembles like she’s outside in winter, stark naked.
Angry purple fingerprints mar the skin around her neck, no doubt her husband’s work, and her bottom lip looks busted.
Mascara streaks her cheeks like coal watercolor.
It makes the reddened skin of her cheek stand out, giving the surrounding flesh a charred effect.
“Bunny?” I try again, kneeling beside her, doing my best to keep clear of the blood spatter. She still doesn’t respond, so I touch her chin, guiding her face toward me. “Little Rabbit?”
Awareness sparks in the depths of her forest gaze. A whoosh of breath leaves her lungs as tears spring to her eyes. “Hunter?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” I brush her hair off her shoulder, skimming my fingertips against the bruises. Fury rolls off me in waves. If Nathaniel weren’t already dead, I’d kill him myself. “It’s okay, Bunny. I’ve got you now.”
“He… he… he,” she hiccups.
“Shhh. It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” I help her off the floor since both her hands are buried inside what looks like a roast.
She must’ve snapped and grabbed what she could to defend herself, though the butcher knife on the counter might’ve been a better choice.
Her fingers are gnarled and curved, frozen from clutching the makeshift weapon so long.
She stays silent, breaths shallow and shuddering as she stands at the sink and lets me clean her hands.
We start with lukewarm water to coax her fingers to relax, and when I can finally massage them straight, I turn the faucet to hot and grab the soap.
Blood and bits of meat dislodge from under her nails, sliding into the farmhouse-style stainless basin and whirling down the drain in orange-red swirls and white, foamy bubbles.
“You’re okay. I’ve got you now. He can’t hurt you anymore. I’ve got you, Little Rabbit.” I repeat it over and over, trying to soothe her, trying to be as comforting as I can, considering the circumstances.
When we’re done, her skin is bright pink and warm to the touch. “I’m going to make a few phone calls to get this taken care of. Okay?”
Tears spring to her eyes again, and she shakes her head vigorously. “No. Please. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Bunny, I have to. We can’t clean this up ourselves. I don’t even know the first thing about—” I cut myself off, remembering the story Keels told us about the pressure cookers.
I think about it for a second.
Only a second.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m going to call Keels and James.”