Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(54)

“Get out,” she said, her voice alien, low and dangerous and hot with rage. The dragon’s voice.

“Bitch!” he shouted, and charged her. She couldn’t get out of the way in time, and he slammed into her and knocked her back. Her head hit the edge of her desk and there was a huge flash of white light. Then everything went away.

She felt a throbbing in her head, and then the room came swimming back into focus. Her sweater was pushed up and her pants and panties were off. She was on the floor looking up at him, his knee digging into her bare stomach. He ripped loose his belt.

“Selfish little bitch,” he said, panting. “Tonight you pay me what I’m due. All of it. Every last bit.”

The throbbing in her head stopped. She felt no fear. It was gone, incinerated by molten rage. A red haze crept into her vision. The dragon that had merely been stirring was fully awake now. It had taken control of her. It was her.

She shoved his knee off her, twisted, and scooted her hips out to the left. Before he could react, she grabbed his lapels and reversed directions, shooting her right knee past his body, working her foot through, and wrapping her legs around his back. The guard. Her favorite.

For one second, he looked almost happy. And why not? He was between her naked legs. What he’d always wanted. He tried to get his pants open, but she pulled him forward so he couldn’t. Then his expression changed to anger as he realized he wasn’t in control. She was.

He straightened and tried to shake loose, but couldn’t. He straightened more, lifting her, then slammed her down against the floor. She saw stars. His height gave him leverage, and his anger was giving him strength. He slammed her again. This time, it knocked some of the wind out of her. He went to do it a third time.

She jerked open his right lapel with her left hand and slipped the fingers of her right hand inside it, high up, alongside his neck. He slammed her down, and as his head rocked forward with the impact, she reached behind his neck with her left hand and got her thumb inside the left side of his lapel, near the back of the collar. She whipped her left arm around his head, dropped her elbows close to her body, and squeezed, the bones at the outer edge of her forearms crushing the sides of his neck like the tongs of a giant walnut cracker. A cross-collar choke, one of the first moves Malcolm had taught her.

His face reddened and veins stood out under his scalp. He tried to break loose and she squeezed tighter with her legs. He tried to push himself up off the floor, and she uncrossed her ankles and kicked out one of his legs. He managed to get his hands on the floor and push himself up, and she hung on, squeezing harder, crying now, screaming, a lifetime of fear and grief and hatred and rage surging up through her arms and out her mouth. His eyes bulged more and his tongue stuck out and a sound came from his throat—a rattling, gurgling, breaking sound. She screamed louder and squeezed harder, looking into his dying, terrified eyes, imagining herself squeezing so hard her arms would go through his neck and cut his entire head off. Harder. Harder. She couldn’t have stopped if she’d wanted to. And she didn’t want to. Stopping was the last thing she wanted.

All at once, his struggles faded. His eyes rolled up, his tongue flopped loose, and his body went limp on top of her. She hung on, sobbing, squeezing.

She wasn’t sure how much time went by. A few seconds. A few minutes. Then the door opened. Livia looked up and saw Mrs. Lone, her mouth hanging open in shock. She must have heard the commotion, and become so concerned she couldn’t ignore it. Her face contorted. And then she screamed.

Livia squirmed loose from under Mr. Lone’s limp form and got to her feet, panting.

“What have you done?” Mrs. Lone screamed, her eyes wide and horrified. “You little whore, what have you done?”

The red haze was fading now, colors returning to normal. But Livia’s breath still felt as hot as smoke.

“You . . . you killed him! You filthy little slut, you whore, you killed him!”

Livia pulled down her sweater and glanced at him. He was lying facedown, his arms at his sides, not moving. Had she killed him? She hadn’t meant to. Or had she? She hadn’t been thinking. Something had just . . . switched on. Taken control.

“I’m calling the police,” Mrs. Lone said. “Right now.” She turned to go.

“Yes, call them. I want to tell them how your husband has been abusing me since I was thirteen. And how you knew all about it.”

Mrs. Lone stopped and turned back to her. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You filthy, lying whore,” she hissed.

“If you didn’t know, why do you keep calling me a whore?”

For a long moment, Mrs. Lone stood frozen. Then she made a hitching, choking sound, as though she was going to vomit, and began to cry.

“You killed him!” she sobbed.

A strange coldness came over Livia. The dragon was suddenly gone, replaced by a feeling of perfect clarity. She picked up her panties and pulled them on, then her pants.

“No one has to know,” she said. And it was true. She was amazed at how quickly and clearly she was able to see it, see all of it. Almost as though some part of her had realized tonight might happen, and had been prepared for it. “No one has to know anything.”

Mrs. Lone raised her hands to the sides of her head. “What are you talking about? My husband is dead! You killed him!”

“No. We think he had a heart attack. He came to my room to congratulate me for winning the tournament, and then he collapsed.”