Chapter 36
Rhett
I grab the gun I hid in a holster near the front door before launching myself up the stairs, and hold it ready when I get to the top. It’s too quiet up here after hearing her scream like that.
“Bailey!” I call down the hall, unsure which one of these rooms she’s in.
“He’s been here,” she says, stepping into my line of sight at the end of the hallway. She looks frozen in fear, standing in the bedroom we shared last night, just outside the bathroom, where the water’s already running.
She holds up a tube of lipstick, and my heart sinks to the floor.
“He left it on the counter,” she tells me. “Just like the one back at my apartment.”
My blood is cold as ice.
“Stay where you’re at,” I tell her, sharply.
I start to make my way down the hall.
There are three doors I have to pass to get to her, but I need to get to her.
Two other bedrooms and a bathroom.
He could be hiding in any of them.
Once I secure Bailey, I’ll search them all, then the rest of the house.
She takes a step to meet me in the middle.
“Stay,” I bark, holding up a hand, and she whimpers, but glues her feet to the floor.
The first door is shut, which I’ll clear in a second, but as I pass the second room, I hear a rustle somewhere inside the room. Somewhere in the dark.
The door is open.
I turn and see a shadow moving just as I—
“Call 9—” I yell at her.
But before I can finish, a hand comes out of the darkness, reaching for the gun.
I rear my elbow back before he can grab it. My elbow connects with his face, and the man stumbles backward. I spin around and get my eyes back on his hands.
No gun, but a knife.
The biggest one from the kitchen downstairs.
I lunge, but he gets a slice in my arm the moment my fist makes contact with his throat, wrapping as tight as a rattlesnake’s jaw when it strikes, not moving for anything.
Stunned, his hand flies up, holding the knife, but I grab his wrist with my other hand, slamming him and the blade against the wall, using my body as a weight.
The knife falls, and I get another shot into his face with my elbow to weaken his fight. It’s the same guy from the party.
I hear Bailey scream, and she’s suddenly behind me.
“Go call,” I grit my teeth, my voice calmer than I feel.
She’s too close right now to use the gun on him. If it deflects or he knocks it at the wrong angle, the trajectory of the bullet could fly the wrong way.
I squeeze his throat instead.
Her scream sounds muffled in my ears, like she’s underwater somewhere else in the room.
“Go, Bailey!” I yell.
Finally, her feet pound down the stairs.
The man’s eyes bulge out at me.
His lips move, but no words come out.
“Say it again,” I growl, loosening my grip on his neck to allow whatever words he has for me to squeeze out.
“She’s,” the man croaks, “mine.”
“Wrong.” I press my fingers more firmly against his jugular, shutting him up. “She’s never been yours. And I’m going to fucking kill you.”
His eyes widen.
He starts trying to pry my hand off his neck, but I only squeeze it harder, feeling his pulse lagging beneath.
No air in.
No air out.
He begins to flail, trying to kick me, but he can’t, not with the way I’m holding him up against the wall.
I listen for her feet on the stairs.
Don’t come back now, Bailey. Not yet.
She’s talking on the phone, sounding desperate.
“Yes, Tattletale Lane. Log cabin. Please. Hurry.”
The terror in her voice makes me only press harder.
Fuck him for making her feel like that.
Her voice should never sound that scared.
I stare into his eyes.
I’ve seen this look before. I’ve seen it on my buddies’ faces. And I’ve seen it on our enemies, but it doesn’t make me move an inch.
His feet slide down the wall as his knees try to make contact with any part of me.
I should never have let him get away last time.
Suddenly, he stares over my shoulder, eyes bulging, fighting hard not to roll back.
I follow his gaze.
Bailey’s standing at the top of the stairs now.
Fuck.
Her eyes are wide in horror, jaw unhinged toward the floor.
“Rhett!” she screams, throwing a hand over her mouth. “Don’t! Please,” she sobs. “Don’t. Please, don’t.”
“If I was going to kill him, he’d already be dead,” I tell her, through gritted teeth, forcing myself not to murder him right here in front of her.
Bailey slides down the wall and takes a shuddering breath from the floor.
His eyes roll back, finally unconscious. And when I can tell that he isn’t going to spring back to life the second I lay him down, I let up.
By the time his body thuds to the ground, I’ve yanked a cord from the curtains to wrap it around both of his wrists, then tie a second one around his ankles.
I leave him in a heap where he fell and back away, my gun drawn if he’s really stupid enough to move once he wakes up.
The cops can deal with him when they arrive.
Right now, the only thing I care about is that Bailey is okay.