Out of Love(70)

Pulling a knife from his holster of weapons, he squatted in front of me again. I stiffened, emotions surging up my chest, constricting my throat, and burning my eyes. Visions of Stefan Hoover pressing a knife to my throat as he pulled down my panties flashed in my head.

Slade flinched and eased his head side to side a fraction as he murmured, “I’m not him.” He leaned forward snaking his arms around me and cutting the tie on my wrists. Grabbing the wet towel, he wiped the blood from my hands.

I tried to keep from grimacing, from showing my weakness, but they were raw and swollen. “Did you know?” I whispered. If he didn’t kill my mom, did he know that Abe did? Did he know everything when he met me?

The palm of his hand pressed to mine as he gently erased the blood with the rag in his other hand. “No.”

“Did you know any of it? Did you know about my dad?”

“No.”

“Then … what are we doing here? Is this where it ends?”

He glanced up at me, stilling his hand. “Yes.”

I swallowed hard and nodded as he stood, slipped his knife back into its holder, and pulled out a gun. He eased into a wooden rocker, resting the gun on the arm under his hand as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. I started to shift on the sofa and Jericho growled.

Just like that … I was the enemy. It didn’t matter how many treats, hugs, and ear rubs I gave him. He was loyal to his master when it mattered most. Inching back, I rested my head on the cushion and hugged my knees to my chest before closing my eyes again.

When I woke again, it was in desperation to pee, and the sun was just starting to illuminate our surroundings.

Trees.

Just as I suspected.

Jericho watched me, unblinking, as if he hadn’t slept a second, and the rocking chair sat empty.

“I need to pee.” I rested my hands on the edge of the sofa to stand. Jericho growled again.

Slade stepped around the corner with a coffee mug in his hand. He nodded to Jericho. “Bathroom.”

Jericho stood, and I took it as a sign that I could too. Easing to my feet, I kept my attention on the dog, not the man dragging out my death for no good reason. Jericho led me past Slade, through the tiny kitchen to a small hallway with a half bathroom on the right. I tried to push the door shut before Jericho came inside, but he was too fast, taking a seat by the pedestal sink.

On a huff, I shut the door and slid down my jeans and underwear. I grumbled, “Fucking dog,” under my breath. Jerry leaned forward and rested his snout on my knee, giving me puppy dog eyes.

And I just … lost it.

Tears.

Sobs.

A complete meltdown.

I barely got myself wiped and my jeans pulled up before I fell to my knees and wrapped my arms around Jericho. “D-don’t l-let him k-kill me …”

He whined a bit and slid to a down position, letting me emotionally bleed out on the bathroom floor, hugging him. As my sobs started to subside, the door opened. I scrambled to my feet, facing the corner by the toilet while my fumbling hands zipped and buttoned my jeans before wiping the tears from my face.

Slade could take my life, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to give him the last shred of my dignity too. Feeling him looming over me like a pollution-filled rain cloud, I sniffed one last time and turned.

“You’re a monster,” I mumbled, brushing past him.

“A monster who loves you.”

My motions screeched to a halt with my back to him. He didn’t say that. No fucking way he said that to me. Slowly, I turned.

Whack!

I hit him again, reopening the cut on his lip along with one on my knuckles. “You are nothing more than a bastard with the soul of Satan. A monster of the worst kind!”

He brushed his middle finger across his bloodied lip before swiping his tongue along the cut. “This bastard with the soul of Satan, this monster of the worst kind … loves you.”

Whack!

I hit him in the exact same spot again. My hand screamed as his head whipped to the side where it stayed as he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth.

“Your uncle killed my mom! You don’t get to love me!”

He wiped more blood from his mouth. “Your dad killed my dad. So you don’t get to hate me!” His voice boomed louder than mine.

“Well, I do!” I kept my fists clenched. “I hate you! I hate you! I—”

In a nanosecond, he grabbed my face and smashed his bloodied mouth to mine, brutally kissing me.

I clawed at his hands and his arms, trying to wriggle out of his grip, trying to turn my head away. He backed me into the wall by the bathroom door. His bruising hands on my face were just as punishing as his lips and his thrashing tongue. The metallic taste of his blood flooded my mouth. When I managed to jerk my head out of the kiss, I spat in his face again … giving him back his blood.

It landed on his upper lip and he licked it off like an animal. Then his hands released my face and cuffed my wrists. He jerked them above my head, painfully restraining them in one hand. I thought he was going to try to kiss me again. And I prepared to bite off his fucking nose if he got close again. Instead of offering me another pound of flesh, he reached behind him with his free hand and pulled something out, but I couldn’t focus fast enough. He raised it above my head, and the familiar sound of a zip tie accompanied the cutting grip on my wrists.