Chapter 20 Scott
TWENTY
SCOTT
The window fights me like it has its own skin in the game.
I shove my numb fingers under the swollen wood and push until the muscles in my forearms burn, but the damn thing refuses to move.
The frame is warped with age, stiff from winter’s unforgiving chill.
Every tiny creak sounds like a scream into the void, and I freeze, listening.
Slow, wet steps shift on the other side of the wall. Too close for comfort. If I force the window, he’ll hear it. If he hears it, he’ll panic. And if he panics, Ava pays for it. That thought presses hard against my ribs, sharper than the pain cascading through my body.
I let the window go. This route is dead. Her window is the only option left, but even with the pale new light spilling across the snow, glowing like a beacon, it’s not viable. Not when he’s likely right there, standing guard over her. It’s too risky.
I back away and circle toward the front of the cabin again. I didn’t want to take the direct route. It’s risky, but now that I know they’re holed up in her room, at least for now, I’m willing to take the chance.
My boots slip deep beneath the surface of the fresh powder, but it doesn’t stop me from moving quickly.
The porch wraps helpfully around the outside of the living room.
I pause at the first window, peering through a small gap in the curtains to check the scene inside.
It’s empty. My breath fogs the glass, and I pull away, shuffling silently along the worn boards, heart hammering.
The front door meets me, hanging agape, almost shut but not fully. He left it like that in a hurry, and that alone tells me everything I need to know.
He’s careless.
I ease the door the rest of the way open with the barrel of my gun, careful not to let the hinges speak. The sheltered air burns against my wind-chafed cheeks. It’s thick with fresh woodsmoke, burning my lungs.
My grip tightens around the gun, index finger resting just outside the trigger guard. I slip through the gap and let the door settle closed behind me.
Unhurried footsteps thud against the floorboards, growing louder.
They’re too heavy to be Ava’s. I flatten myself against the wall beside the living room entry, breath held tight in my chest. They pass mere inches from where I stand, then veer toward the kitchen, away from me. I risk a glance around the corner.
This fucker moves with the confidence of someone who thinks he owns the place. No concern for the fact that he left me unconscious—not dead—a matter of yards from the cabin.
He twists the faucet on, and water splashes into the sink, before he fills the kettle. A moment later comes the click of the propane stove, followed by the low hiss as the flame catches.
I brace my shoulder against the wall, steadying myself, letting my nerves settle and my heartbeat match the metrical tick of the clock.
I shift my weight, ready to step out and end this.
Then her voice carries down the hallway, rushed but firm. “Hey, Braxton, I’m going to go to the bathroom.”
Every relaxed muscle in me locks. Ava’s fine. She’s up and talking, so close I could get to her in a few strides, but that’s not my plan.
Now’s my chance.
“Okay, your tea will be done soon, beautiful.”
His tone slithers over that last word. So smug as if he’s finally gotten exactly what he’s always wanted. I see red. A blinding rage that burns throughout my body, engulfing me whole. Every ounce of calm I’d scraped together shatters like glass.
I round the corner with the shotgun pulled tight to my shoulder, sights lined clean with his skull. I don’t bother hiding the heavy thud of my footsteps. I want him to hear me coming.
“Beautiful, I—” His words die against his vile tongue as he turns and meets the barrel pressing into his forehead.
My own pulse hammers through the metal, but I keep the gun steady. “Surprise, motherfucker.”
His mouth opens, ready to poison the air again.
I shake my head slowly. “You should’ve made sure I was dead.”
Without so much as a second thought, my finger tugs back on the trigger.
The expected recoil never happens. The cracking explosion doesn’t sound throughout the cabin. My trusty old shotgun betrays me and jams. Braxton doesn’t so much as flinch.
He lunges. The impact knocks the gun clean from my aching grip, sending it clattering across the floorboards. He’s already moving, dead-set on the hallway, on getting to her. But his blind desperation gives me just enough time to intercept him.
He thinks he’s going to get to Ava? He’ll have to carve through me first.
“You perverted old man,” he snarls, spit flying. “You’ll never have her again. She’s mine.”
The word mine unleashes something wild in me.
He swings first. It’s messy, without control or experience. I duck, feeling the rush of air over my ear as I counter with a right hook. It clips his cheek, not enough to knock him off balance or slow him down. He’s a damn bull, barreling forward on rage alone.
It’s fine. I’ve spent years at the boxing gym down the street from my place back in the city. I harness my fury, feeding it to the monster inside.
I lower my stance and charge, forcing him step by step away from the hall, deeper into the kitchen, away from my Ava. I don’t know if she can hear everything going on out here. But I hope she stays put, safely tucked away at the back of the cabin.
The counter stops his retreat, and I finally get a grip on his jacket. Being this close, a foul smell wafts off the fabric. I ignore the scent, focusing on what’s important—my punch. It slams into his gut, and I bring my knee up, hard.
The crack of his nose shattering echoes through the kitchen. It’s a sickening crunch I’ve heard a few too many times. He reels, blood spraying wide across my leg. It buys me the second I need to grab the cast-iron pan conveniently sitting next to us on the counter.
I swing, but he rams his shoulder into my ribs, a brutal lineman’s hit. The world flips. My spine slams the floor, and all the air surrenders from my lungs in one violent burst.
Pain explodes through my skull, that old wound roaring back to life. My vision sputters around the edges, threatening to go. But sheer will to keep Ava safe has me moving. I roll, desperate for a lungful of air, to get back to my feet.
His weight crashes down on me like an avalanche, pinning me flat. My arms are trapped against my sides, caught beneath his legs. I thrash, but the angle is all wrong. He’s on top. A position I know better than to allow. He knows it. I know it.
His fingers clamp around my throat. The pressure is instant and merciless.
The human equivalent of a boa constrictor hunting for its next meal.
His thumbs dig in until fire spreads through my throat.
I can’t breathe a whisp. Can’t swallow a drop.
His eyes glitter with a sick glee as he watches me struggle.
I buck, twist, try to get a knee up into his back, anything to reverse our roles.
He only tightens his hold, leaning all his goddamn weight against my trachea.
My windpipe compresses, not strong enough to withstand the assault.
Black dots burst in and out of focus, dancing along the edges of my vision.
Ava’s tear-stained face flashes through my mind. Her beautiful pale skin under these same deadly hands. The bruises he’ll no doubt leave. The fear he’ll feed on. The danger she’s in.
Rage skewers through the suffocating haze.
I wrench an arm free with a hoarse, animalistic sound and swing at his ribs. It’s weak, barely more than a playful tap on his side, but it’s something.
“Get off him!” Her voice slices through the chaos, a fierce warrior’s cry.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up at her. Not when her footsteps pound closer. Not when she crouches within his reach.
I hear a familiar click.
“Braxton!” she screams, voice cracking with emotion. “Look at me!”
Her desperation claws through the thickening darkness.
It’s the last thing I register before everything finally slips away.