Pocketful of Sand(69)

“I can be quite…persuasive, Eden,” he says, reaching out to run his finger from my chin down to my cleavage. I want to grab it in my fist and break it. But I don’t move. Still, I hold his gaze. I won’t be backing down tonight. Tonight or any other night.

“I would rather spend my life on the run for killing you than give you five minutes with my daughter.” One smoothly-arched brow snaps up. “And if you don’t move that finger, you stand a good chance of losing it.”

Fire is pouring through me. Rage, built up over years of being an unwilling sex toy, bubbles within my veins. Bitterness that this man has the right to claim my daughter as his own burns inside me.

I feel at once powerful for standing up to him, angry for waiting so long and terrified that this won’t work out in my favor somehow.

But it has to.

I have to make it.

Ryan does nothing, says nothing for long seconds. He doesn’t move his finger, but he doesn’t advance it either.

But then he does.

He moves so quickly I yelp in surprise. He fists his fingers in my shirt and jerks me off the couch, rolling onto me as we both fall to the floor. The jarring impact knocks the breath out of me. I gasp in an effort to get it back, but it doesn’t come. With his unrelenting weight on me, my lungs can’t expand.

I start to kick and scratch at him, but he easily pins my arms to my sides. Like he used to.

That’s when fear settles in. For a few seconds, I’m a scared child again, at the mercy of someone older and stronger. My heart races and my chest burns with the need for oxygen. I tilt my chin up, trying desperately to get even one good breath. But it won’t come. Ryan presses down on me with his muscular upper body, making my head feel like it might explode.

I barely hear the knock at the door over the blood pumping behind my ears. But I do. I try to make some sound, but all that comes out is a raspy, wheezing sound. And then Ryan’s hand clamps down over my mouth, making it even harder to breathe. I wiggle the best that I can, anything to break free, to gain one inch of purchase with arm or leg, all to no avail. I’m too small. He’s too big. Too heavy.

My head starts to swim lightly from hypoxia. The only thing left I can think to do is to sink my teeth into the finger that rests over my lips. So I do. With every ounce of strength in my jaws, I bite down. I feel the give of flesh tearing away from bone. I taste the coppery tang of blood entering my mouth. I hear the satisfying growl of my captor.

And then I see Cole, a furious angel bearing down on Ryan. I see his big hands grab Ryan by the shoulders. I feel the weight lift when he slings him off. I breathe in relief when cool air rushes into my lungs.

I scramble away unsteadily, aware only of the crash of things breaking as I crawl frantically to the other side of the room. I lean into the corner near the door and I watch Cole silently, viciously beat the blood and breath out of Ryan.

He’s straddling him, pummeling him with first one fist and then the other. Back and forth, never stopping.

Blood starts to spatter the walls, Cole’s shirt and face. Ryan stopped moving several punches ago and his visage is completely unrecognizable. Some part of me relishes what’s happening in front of me, but there’s another part that realizes this won’t end well. As much as I’d like to know Ryan is gone, as little as he deserves to live, this can’t happen. It just can’t.

“Cole, stop,” I say in a hoarse croak. He doesn’t even pause. “Cole, stop!” I call louder.

This, he hears.

When he turns his head to look at me, it’s as though he’s still seeing Ryan. For just a second. Maybe two. He looks murderous. Confused, almost, that he’s seeing me. And then his expression softens. It softens into something that makes me want to cry and curl up in his arms and never move.

But then he looks away. Back to Ryan, who is unconscious beneath him. He climbs off him, kicking him once in the ribs for good measure, before he reaches into his pocket for his phone. “I’m calling the police.”

And so he does.

As he speaks to the 911 operator, I stand to shaky legs and make my way to Emmy’s room. I knock on the door. “Emmy? Unlock the door, sweetpea. I want to come in.”

I wait, listening for rustling or crying, afraid of what I might find.

I hear nothing.

I knock again, a little harder this time.

“Emmy, open up, baby, it’s Momma.”

I wait. I listen. Nothing.

I try the knob. It won’t turn. It’s definitely locked.