Page 160 of The Spider & the Storm

He glanced over his shoulder, and I ducked back down, praying he couldn't hear my thundering heartbeat.

“Charlie!” he shouted, his anger rising.

He spun on his heel and barreled toward the closet. He threw the door open, swept my clothes to the side, and roared through his mounting rage. He kicked the pile of sketchbooks stacked on the closet floor, sending them scattering.

Then, he did something unexpected. He bent down, picked one up, and studied whatever had been scribbled onto the page.

This is it. Run.

I moved carefully, readying my limbs to take off. Then, as he turned the page and cocked his head, I stole the opportunity and ran.

Yes! Yes, yes, yes, I chanted, bolting past Tommy and making it out the door as he screamed a curse and threw the sketchbook at my floorlength mirror, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

The stairs weren't far from my door, just a few paces.

I can make it. I'm gonna make it. I have to fucking make it.

Then, as I was about to descend the first step, a sharp pain shot through my scalp as Tommy's hand wrapped around my hair and pulled me back. I reached around me, digging my nails into his flesh as I yelled incoherent obscenities.

“Shit! Fuck! Tommy!” I squeezed my eyes shut, keeping my knife-wielding hand at my side, praying I wouldn't have to use it. “Please. Stop. God, just fuckingstop!”

“You know I can't do that,” he said, releasing my hair for a moment of relief before hooking his arm around my neck.

His forearm pressed against my Adam's apple, crushing. I gasped and wrapped my hand around his wrist, pulling on him enough to lessen the pressure on my throat.

“Goddammit, Tommy,” I gasped, struggling to maintain my grip. “W-we can talk, okay? We can fuckingtalkabout this shit. Just stop. Y-y-you don't want to kill me.”

“Don't you fucking tell me what I want to do!”

My mind raced, desperate. “No, no, listen to me, Tommy. You don't want to kill me. You want to kill Luke, right?Hekilled Ritchie.Hekilled your brother. What the fuck didIdo? God, what the fuck did I ever—”

He raised the hand holding his blade and pressed the point beneath my jaw.

I squeezed my lids shut, silently cursing the tears that had already begun to stream from between my lashes as a torrent of, “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” passed through my lips. Wishing I were dreaming. Praying that I was and that I'd wake up to a pool of sweat and a heart on the brink of bursting through my chest.

“Don't you fuckingdaretell me what I want.” He emphasized every word, hot breath and spittle raining against my ear. “Luke took my brother from me. So, I'm going to take his. That’s fair, right? Eye for an eye and all that shit.”

The tip of his knife pressed firmly to my flesh and hot, hot, hot heat trickled down the side of my neck.

I'm bleeding.He's going to slit my throat. This is how I’ll die.

The blade moved, traveling slowly along my jawline. Acceptance had barely begun to creep in, an odd sense of serenity and a sensation close to relief, when a scream torethrough my throat, and I raised my other hand and sliced Tommy's arm. It was enough to make him lower his weapon and loosen his hold on my neck.

“Fucking asshole,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth.

He dropped his injured arm from my neck long enough to give me another dash of false hope. I attempted the stairs again, but Tommy recovered quickly. His hand gripped my bare arm and yanked me toward him. I stumbled on the step as he dragged me, thrusting me against the wall opposite my bedroom door. My eyes met his, and diluted black pupils stared back. Sweat dripped from his brow. He blinked rapidly, looked away, then looked back to at wide-eyed gaze. The function of his hands and body were somehow controlled, but the movement of his eyes were erratic. Crazed.

“God, Tommy, what the fuck are you on?” I found myself asking, as if it mattered. “Stop, okay? Just stop,please. I'll do whatever you want me to do, okay? I-I'll leave—is that what you want me to do? You'll never have to see my face again, okay? I'll—”

“You know what I was thinking on the way over here?” Tommy asked, his voice low as he brought his nose to mine.

I shook my head. God, his breath stank, like booze and shit.

“I was thinking …” He huffed a laugh, blasting my face with rancid heat. “I was thinking about what Ritchie”—his voice cracked, and damn me and my fucking heart because I actually, almost, felt bad for him—“said that one time. Remember?”

“No,” I answered while wondering where the fuck the cops were.

How long had it been now? It’d felt like hours, but … no, it was probably only a few minutes, maybe three, four.

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