Page 126 of The Thug And His Doll

"Please, don't do this, Martin. Think of Toby," I beg, the weight of his anger compressing the space around us, narrowing down the world to this single, desperate moment.

"I am thinking of my son," he snarls back, stepping towards me as my heart pounds wildly against my rib cage, each beat a desperate plea for escape from this nightmare. "You took him from me, and you will fucking die knowing that you brought this on yourself."

"You don't have to do this. I made a mistake. I will come home with you. We can be happy again," I lie, hoping to subdue him, at least until help arrives. Daisy isn't stupid, she would've called for help.

"You think I'm a fucking fool, don't you?" he sneers, his words a deadly hiss. "You think you can just run off with my son, and whore yourself out to another man and there wouldn't be any consequences? I’m going to fucking kill you!"

"Please, Martin," I beg, my heart pounding in my chest, the echo of each beat deafening in my ears as I back up. I try to swallow, but my throat is as dry as sandpaper. "You have to think of Toby."

He laughs then, a cold humourless sound that sends chills down my spine. "You thought that you could just leave me and live happily ever after?" he growls as he closes the gap between us.

"I... I never meant for this to happen," I stammer, trying to buy as much time as possible. "We can work this out. We can be a family again, just like before."

"Where's my son?" he snaps back, eying the stairs.

"In bed, asleep. Please, Martin, let's just talk," I say, forcing the tremble from my voice, knowing that my fear will only fuel his hatred. "We can figure this out."

"Talk about what, how you upped and left in the middle of the night? How I find out that you've been fucking another man after seeing you draped all over him in a magazine? Do you know how fucking humiliating that is?"

"I'm sorry," I say, holding my hands up as I edge towards the china lamp sitting on the side table next to the sofa. If I can get to it, maybe I can use it as a weapon.

"You're sorry? You're fucking sorry?" Another maniacal laugh escapes his lips, and it takes everything in me to remain strong, to not cry.

"Let me make it up to you," I whisper.

"And how do you plan on doing that?" he asks.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. "I'll come back home, and we can go to counselling. We can work through our issues together," I say, hoping that my words will calm his anger. It’s all a lie, of course, I’d rather rip my own eyes out than go home with him, but it’s all I can think of to say.

"Counselling?" he scoffs, fury burning in his eyes. "After everything you've done? You think that's going to fix things?"

"Please, Martin," I plead. "Just give me a chance to make things right."

He shakes his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. "Fuck you, Lia. You're nothing but a filthy whore, I don't want you back. I want revenge, and I'm going to get it."

Tears spring to my eyes, but I quickly blink them away. "I didn't mean for it to happen like this," I whisper, hating how my voice betrays me.

“But it did happen," he snaps back. "And now you have to face the consequences." My stomach drops as realisation dawns on me - there is no talking or reasoning with him, this is it, this is the night he'll finally kill me. All I can think about is Drix and what he had to witness as a child. I can’t let that happen. I can’t allow Toby to go through the same trauma.

"Please," I beg one last time, my gaze flicking towards the lamp.

Sensing what I'm about to do, he lunges for me right at the same moment my fingers wrap around the base of the lamp. I pick it up, ripping it from the socket, and throwing it at him with a cry of fear and blazing anger.

The lamp smashes against his chest, scattering to pieces as he reels backwards from the force. Seizing the opportunity, I run towards the kitchen, my heart pounding as I hear Martin's angry shouts behind me.

Running towards the utensil draw, I rip it open, my hands shaking as I search for something, anything to protect myself. My eyes land on a large chef's knife, its serrated edge gleaming ominously. Gripping it tightly, I feel a wave of determination wash over me as he bursts into the kitchen.

His eyes drop to the knife, then lift back up at me. "You don't have it in you," he smirks, edging closer, his eyes filled with malice and a sick satisfaction at the fear in mine. “You’re weak. You’re nothing but a pathetic sack of flesh.”

At that moment something inside me snaps. I will no longer be a victim of this man's abuse. I refuse to let him hurt me or take my son. No more.

“Fuck you, Martin. I’m done being your punching bag, someone for you to abuse. If you dare lay another finger on me I will kill you!”

"Is that so?" he taunts, the scent of fear, rage and sweat filling the air.

"I mean every damn word," I grind out.

"You really think you can fight me?"

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