Chapter 26 #2
I seize his jacket, whipping him forward as he struggles for a good grip on me, and drive his face straight into the nearest steel support.
The clang echoes like a gunshot. Vincent staggers upright, his laugh comes wet with blood as he recovers and lunges forward.
I catch his wrist, twisting hard enough to force a snarl from his throat just before releasing.
I spin as he attempts to catch his footing and whirl the heel of my boot straight into his jaw.
The impacts twists him and he reels backward, one hand flying to his ruined face.
Then, his expression changes as calculation settles behind his eyes.
Vincent’s hand drops to the polished cane abandoned on the floor.
He grabs it on both ends, and rushes forward.
I duck, aiming to slam my shoulder into his pelvis but he anticipates it and scoops me from below driving me against the wall.
His breath reeks heavily, penetrating my nostrils, as his hand wraps around my open throat. “Is this how it happened Florence? Was this how your husband did it?”
I go still; Greer’s wet screams drown out by my own heartbeat. It’s the old stillness, the kind where struggling makes it worse. My vision blurs at the edges, not from the pressure, but from memory. I can’t shake him. And it’s the helplessness in my limbs that has me realizing how weak I really am.
Vincent’s thumb presses into my jaw, forcing my chin up.
My nostrils flare wildly as snot flies out from the struggle to breathe.
There’s a dangerous humor in his voice when he feels it, when he feels me disappear.
But I no longer hear his words. I can’t see his face, this room.
Nothing. My life before me fades. I feel myself slump as the numbness crawls invitingly up my body.
My soul no longer wants to struggle, but to sink into the bliss.
My mother stands behind me, combing her fingers through my hair, humming an old hymnal as I stare at her reflection in the mirror of her vanity, Thomas and Wade play with toy trains on the floor behind us. My mother reaches down, smoothing the top of my head and presses a quiet kiss to my hair.
The world spins again as if I’m stuck in the eye of a hurricane.
Ellie and Todd are running through the hay field at the farm, their laughs swirling with the tall grass flowing in the wind. “Mama come get us!” they squeal.
My team sits at the lunch table, Cici squeezing my hand as she plops down beside me. Miss Onida beaming proudly at everyone digging in.
Jasper sneaking glances from every sip of his drink. Nyx stands, waiting respectfully for me to take my seat.
I go to sit, but my bottom hits a wooden pew. Nyx takes his seat on the altar, bowing his head to pray.
Miss Onida looks at me from beside him, her figure visible, clear as day. “Make me proud, Atsi Waya.”
The moon shines brightly above the old cabin, Torin’s howl soaring up to it, as if the call is pulling me. The alpha peers at me as if he’s calling me home.
Everything disappears. I’m standing alone in the valley outside the cabin now.
No Torin in sight. The meadow stretches endlessly around me, the grass rippling in slow motion beneath a restless wind.
The porch light glows softly against the weathered logs, smoke curling from the chimney as if someone is still waiting inside.
I try to take a step forward, but I can’t.
Somehow, I know I’m seeing myself from above.
I’m just a lone figure standing in the middle of the valley.
Small. Broken. Suspended between Heaven and earth.
The clouds churn overhead, swallowing the stars one by one as thunder rolls across the mountains with enough force to shake the ground beneath my feet.
A blinding bolt of lightning tears through the sky.
It slams into the earth only yards from where I stand as white engulfs the valley.
The air trembles as the mountains answer with another deafening roar of thunder.
Then—a voice vast enough to shake the Heavens themselves—breaks through the storm. Everything stills.
“Your story is not finished, Florence Belcher.”
A strike of lightening barrels toward me, then world before me shatters into a blinding white.
My eyes roll back violently, nostrils flaring wide as I’m jolted back to conciseness.
I snarl, baring my teeth through sheer will.
“I have survived everything that was meant to kill me,” I grit out.
“You don’t get to be the exception.” Because the thing Vincent is holding isn’t fear anymore. It’s a door. And it slams open.
Something feral tears through my chest. My hands move before my thoughts catch up— fast, brutal, and precise.
I drive every ounce of my weight forward, snapping his grip, my elbow slamming into his throat with everything I have.
Air leaves him in a wet choke. My knee comes up hard between his legs with bone deep force, the break pleasantly audible through the chaos.
This isn’t survival anymore. This is the part of me that learned how to end it.
I’m not fighting him. I’m fighting every man who’d ever raised a hand at a woman.
Every memory. Every ghost. I let the anger burn through me as I pummel him to the ground.
My fist slams into his jaw with a crack.
I don’t give him time to breathe; I keep driving with my shoulder sockets screaming but my soul screams louder.
I raise both my fists, hammering down into his face as I roar.
Blood splatters everywhere as I feel his body weakening beneath me, each strike sending him further to unconsciousness.
I pound and pound until Vincent’s body finally limpens.
Kova yelps, and I jerk my head in her direction as men flood in from the separate wing.
Jonathan lies face down against the concrete, blood pooling from his chest. Emergency lights are flashing in a sea of red, alarms are blaring and blood curdling shouts sound everywhere.
I’m on my feet ready to charge, but Jett slams into me out of nowhere, pushing me back behind the corner of the wall.
He tosses over my blade belt. “Here, I figured you’d need these.
” He hands over the other pistol, firing off a few rounds of his own into the men approaching.
I peer around to Kova, ripping and ravishing her way through the flood.
“Help Kova!” I plead to him. He only blinks.
“The wolf is mine,” I command more than speak.
I’m shaking, both with weakness and adrenaline.
I collapse against the wall, struggling to catch my breath.
A shadow moves behind me, a hatchet raised high above my head.
I lift my arms, bracing for impact when suddenly, gunshots rain above like lightning, peppering the man to the ground.
I look up. Nyx perches on the shattered skylight like a freaking executioner, harness taut and eyes locked on my frozen figure.
He immediately begins firing into the flood of the B.A.I.T men, dropping down from the ceiling, smooth and lethal, landing beside me.
This isn’t a rescue, this is reinforcement.
Nyx lands straight into Kova’s enclosure and unclips himself in a single practiced motion.
He kicks the unlatched door open and moves.
Not toward the fight, toward me. The distance between us disappears in seconds.
Nyx grabs onto my shoulders, eyes sweeping over my face and body.
His hands slide to my wrists before I can jerk them away and he stills.
Then his gaze slowly travels up my arms to what’s hidden behind my hair.
The Reaper before me carefully slides my ragged hair away from my neck. One glance is all it takes. I see the pulse in his neck beginning to slam against his skin as his face darkens.
“Nyx—”