Page 13 of Slay Bells Ring

He pushes off the wall, and we spend the next few seconds circling each other. Kane grins and says, “Come on, kid, let’s dance.”

Oh, that’s it. He wants to dance? We’ll fucking dance.

I go for him with the knife, knowing he’s going to either block or dodge. He ends up sidestepping my outstretched arm entirely, but I’m still in motion so I swing my arm back around. He blocks me by hitting my wrist with his.

How do I respond to that? I twirl around and use my other arm to elbow him in the gut—a move he’s clearly not expecting, because my elbow finds its target and I hear him grunt. With my back to him, I drop my knife-wielding hand to my side, flip the knife so it points backward, and try to stab him like that.

But the jerk grabs my wrist with his hand and easily stops me. Seriously, it’s like I’m a feather trying to break down a brick wall all by my lonesome.

“Not that easy, I’m afraid,” Kane whispers as he pushes me away and rubs his abdomen—which I regret to know is just as solid as the rest of him. The man is built like a mountain. “And you only got me there because I’m a little hungover.”

I spot his bag laying on the floor next to the dresser, and in it I see more bottles. God, the man really did come here to drink and drink and drink, didn’t he? Given the fact that his booze is about the only thing that seems to matter to him and how obvious it is I won’t be able to take him on head-to-head, I opt for a different tactic.

“What are you—” Kane starts to ask, but the moment I make a beeline for the bag with the booze, he shuts up.

I pull out the first bottle I can get my hand on and hold it up between us, and just like that his slightly amused expression morphs into one of rage. “These damn bottles are pretty important to you, huh? I mean, it looks like alcohol is all you brought with you. It’d be a shame to waste them.”

The half-smile he gives me after that is more like a snarl. Kane takes a single step toward me, his hands balled-up into fists. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He said I’m used to getting my way? I bet he’s used to intimidating people into doing what he wants. Like me, now: if I was anyone else, I would carefully set the bottle down to avoid his wrath.

But I’m me, and I want to piss him off just ‘cause.

My fingers loosen around the glass bottle, and as it falls from my hand I innocently say, “Oopsie!” The bottle falls to the floor and breaks, spilling its contents every which way and sending small glass shards everywhere.

In hindsight, not the smartest thing to do when your feet are only wearing a pair of thick socks, but whatever.

He practically growls at me. Yes, the man actuallygrowls. I pick up another bottle, and he says, “Don’t.” A single word, a warning, but what’s he going to do? Kill me? Joke’s on him. I’m already dead.

Everything that happens next happens in a rush. Before I can drop the next bottle, Kane rushes at me, expertly avoiding the glass on the floor while outstretching his hand to grab the bottle from me. He’s so focused on saving the booze that I don’t think twice about what I do while he’s distracted.

I stab him. I stab that motherfucker right in the chest the same moment he saves that blasted bottle from its early demise at my hand.

Only the knife doesn’t go deep enough, not nearly deep enough to stop him in his tracks and make him fall to the floor, dead. On his left pectoral, the damned thing only went in an inch or so thanks to me not putting enough muscle behind it.

Shit.

Kane, now standing directly in front of me, less than a foot away, pauses as he glances down at his chest—basically eye-level for me. We both spend the next few seconds staring at the knife protruding from his chest, and neither of us say a word.

Kane is the one who acts first. He takes a single step away from me, and he turns somewhat to deposit the bottle safely on the bed; the man must feel it’s safe there since he stands between me and the bed. Then he reaches for the handle of the knife and pulls it out like it’s nothing but a scratch, a teeny, tiny flesh wound.

“Your aim was a little off if you were going for my heart,” he informs me. “And you’ll need to put a lot more muscle behind it if you want to stab to kill.” The tip of the knife drips red with his blood, joining the spilled alcohol on the ground. A wetness blossoms on his chest, darkening his already dark shirt.

I don’t know what’s worse—that I tried to stab him and failed miserably or that he doesn’t sound upset about it in the least? Most people would wince when they pull a knife out of their body, but Kane? He didn’t even blink.

At this point, I don’t know what to do, but I do know one thing: I don’t like being caught between his body and the wall. More space between us would be welcome.

I take a single step to the side in an effort to go around him, but the moment I do, instant pain erupts in my foot, shooting up to my ankle, and I can only say a single word: “Fuck.”

Without glancing down, Kane already knows. “You didn’t.”

I bite my bottom lip and lift my injured foot. There’s a new, burning addition to the bottom of my sole: a nice, broken bottle shard. It stings ten times worse than I imagine a regular glass shard would thanks to how wet with alcohol it is, and my sock is already bloodied.

“You did,” Kane mutters. “What a killer you are.”

That remark pisses me off, and I act without thinking. I try to punch him, but doing so requires me to take a step forward… and I step on another goddamned shard with my other foot before I can land the stupid punch.

With the current levels of pain in my feet, my knees give out instinctively to try to lessen that pain. The only reason I don’t fall to the wet floor is Kane—the man catches me before I fall over and, knife still in hand, he picks me up off my feet, bringing my face way too close to his in the process.

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