Page 412 of Steamy Ever After

Closing my eyes, I silently beg for my uncle to please, please, please, be too weak to get out of bed.

“As soon as we get home, you’re going to regret this.” He releases my arm and grabs the buckle of his pants, letting me know exactly how my punishment will start.

Spots of black fill my vision. I squeeze my eyes and gasp for breath. The fist around my throat does not lift up. Scott’s got a chokehold on me, and he’s not letting up.

“Please…” I gulp for air. “I can’t breathe.”

“Who the fuck is that guy? The one you couldn’t keep your hands off?”

“Scott…” My eyes tear. “I c-can’t b-breathe.”

Scott’s body shifts. Pain rips through me, stealing my breath as Scott punches me in the stomach. He follows with a second. And then a third.

“Who. Is. He?” Each word comes with another punch to my gut.

Blinding pain becomes my universe.

Scott pins me to the door. Hand at my throat, he punches hard. My body lifts each time his fist connects.

My vision turns black. My body jerks as each punch hits home. Caught between his fist and the door, my body absorbs all the terrible power fueled by Scott’s jealous rage.

A loud crash sounds in the kitchen. I slip in and out of consciousness. There’s a large shape. Moving fast.

Toward me.

The punches to my gut stop.

Agony rips through me.

Scott’s nails scrape my skin as his fingers are ripped from my throat. No longer supported, I slump to the floor. Gasping and gulping, I try to escape. Too weak to stand, I make it to my hands and knees. I crawl, even knowing I won’t get far.

Another crash. This one directly over my head.

“Oof!” Scott gasps. He trips over me, stumbling backward, but then his weight suddenly lifts. Scott cries out.

“Abby!” That’s my uncle. “What’s going on?”

I crawl toward the sound of his voice while a fistfight rages around me. By the time I make it to my uncle, I can see again.

And what I see is death incarnate.

Drake goes toe-to-toe with Scott. Fists fly as the men battle it out. My uncle leans against the wall, wheezing from the exertion of walking less than twenty feet.

Drake’s a thing of beauty when he fights. All sinuous grace, he moves with single-minded determination.

His objective is clear.

Eliminate the threat.

Scott’s head whips to the left as Drake punches him in the jaw. Blood and spittle fly in an arc. Before Scott recovers, Drake’s on him again. This time, with a flurry of punches to Scott’s midsection, ending with an uppercut to his jaw. His head whips back.

Drake doesn’t stop. He’s a trained killing machine, and he’s going to kill Scott.

I struggle to my feet and clutch my uncle’s hand.

“Go back to your room. Call the cops.” We need 9-1-1 before this becomes a homicide.

While my uncle retreats to his room, I gather myself together. With a shake of my head, I clear my vision and steady my feet beneath me.

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