Page 129 of Wicked Little Secret

“Dumb cat!” he yells, drawing his foot back and then launching it forward. He delivers a crushing kick to Peaches’s side.

The little orange tabby flops halfway down the hall with a feeble cry. Wicker gives a crude laugh.

The thin rope of restraint keeping me inside that closetvanishes. The closet door flies open as I charge forward. Wicker’s barely sensed a figure shooting toward him by the time he’s turning his head to glance over.

My fist sails through the air. It lands on the apple of Wicker’s cheek. Knuckles against his cheekbone, forcing a grunt out of him. He stumbles back several heavy-footed steps. His large form knocks into some painted artwork on the wall. The frames flip off their hooks and to the ground.

Shit. Sorry, Nyssa! I’ll fix that later.

Peaches shrieks and jumps out of the way, fleeing to a safe space under the sofa.

I rush forward for a second blow. My fist meets his gut and steals the breath in his lungs. Wicker curls an arm around his stomach as if on the verge of collapse.

It’s a fake out.

The large oaf releases an angry howl worthy of a beast and then plows into me. We’re airborne for a brief second. Two bodies flying across Nyssa’s apartment. Whereas we start in the hall, we wind up scattered on the floor of her living room.

We clamber to our knees, then feet, at the same time.

It’s clear Wicker outweighs me. He’s taller, broader, generallybigger.

But he’s also slow and stupid, two things I can use to my advantage.

I admit, I’m not the most capable fighter.

But I improvise. I think on my feet. I’m about winning, not flexing muscles and brawn or showing off.

As Wicker launches at me, I wait until the last possible second and swerve to the side. His meaty fist collides with nothing more than air. I grab a book off Nyssa’s shelf and slam it over his head. The same spot where I’d beat him with a rock mere weeks ago.

Wicker howls again. This time out of pain.

The stitches are likely still fresh. A fact that gives me a twinge of petty satisfaction as I bring the book down a second and third time.

Wicker’s crouched over, an arm thrust up to try to block me.

When that fails, he swipes at my legs. His arms lock around them and he’s yanking with full brute strength. I’m ripped off my feet like a rug has been pulled out from under me. I crash down on my back, pain radiating up my spine.

The whole world feels like it’s been flipped upside down.

That’s because, as I look up, Wicker’s hovering over me. His hand reaches out to wrench off the skeleton mask.

No… no… DON’T!

A nasty grin curls onto his lips once he sees my face. “Professor,” he says. “Thought so. It was you that night too, eh? So they were right?”

He grabs the front of my hoodie and lifts me up. Before I can gain my footing or grapple him off me, he tosses me forward so that I land several feet away on my stomach. He closes in at once and wrenches me over, drawing his fist back and slamming it into my face.

His fist is like colliding with a brick.

Pain explodes across my face as he pulls it back for another hit.

Do something, Theron. Right now. You’re losing!

My hand searches desperate and blind at my side for something, anything, to grab onto. My fingers wrap around a metal chisel that’s resting on the coffee table. One of Nyssa’s sculpting supplies that she uses to smooth down her sculptures.

The point’s sharp like a blade.

As Wicker slams his fist into my face yet again, I jam the chisel into his side.

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