Page 137 of Knot Made to Break: Part One

“You think you’re clever? You think you can hide from me?” His voice was a growl, stripped of its previous playfulness. “I cansmellthe fear on you, Omega.”

His shadow passed over the bench, stretching long and thin like a blade. I bit down harder, drawing blood, the pain a welcome distraction from the terror that threatened to consume me whole. He was so close.Tooclose.

He slowed, then stopped, lingering just beyond my hiding spot. I could almost feel his eyes burning holes through thewood, throughme. My mind screamed to run, but there was only one way out of the penthouse, and that was through Vincent.

Move. Please, just move.I begged, hoping he’d leave, that he’d look elsewhere. Or better yet, simply give up. But his vendetta was too strong for that. His hatred and wounded pride were too great.

My legs cramped, and my back turned into a solid sheet of pain. But I didn’t flinch, didn’t breathe.

I flipped off the safety and prepared myself to shoot.

Without warning, Vincent wrenched open the bench with a savage jerk. Terror sawed through me, sharp and jagged. I tried to aim, to pull the damn trigger, but before I could react, he gripped my hair, twisting ruthlessly as he dragged me free. I lashed out, kicking and scratching, my nails scoring deep lines into his skin. But his strength swallowed mine as he lifted me like a rag doll and tossed me to the ground.

I hit the floor hard, and the gun flew from my hand, skittering across the hallway tiles, spinning to a stop yards away. Tears poured down my cheeks, and an agonized cry tore from my throat, raw and desperate, the sound mingling with the sickening notes of his laugh.

“Caught you,” he taunted, a predator toying with his prey before he ended it without mercy.

I lunged for my weapon, army crawling, pulling myself toward it as fast as I could move, but Vincent was faster. His fist closed around my ankle, squeezing painfully. My fingertips scraped the floor. Stretching. Reaching. Missing the gun by mere inches. A vicious, violent tug yanked me back with brutal force, making my bones protest and my muscles scream.

“Please,” I gasped as he flipped me onto my back so hard my head smacked against the ground. The word had slipped out before I could stop it, a reflexive plea for mercy that I knew he would savor.

“Please?” Vincent mocked, his lips curling into that familiar, hateful grin. “Are you begging for me again,micia? Just like you used to?”

Being within his grasp once more was enough to scare the life out of me, but it was the blood splattered on his white-shirt that was truly terrifying.

Tommas.

His name echoed through my mind on repeat, matching the frantic, erratic beats of my heart.

My struggling only made Vincent sneer and lean down so close I could feel the warmth of his breath. “It’s almost cute how you think you can escape me.”

I braced myself and tried to shove him away, but he was ready for me. With a swift, practiced motion, he backhanded me across the face, the cold metal of the gun biting into my skin. The world exploded in white-hot pain, my head whipping to the side. My vision blurred, then doubled, and I tasted blood in my mouth. Stunned by the impact, I went limp.

“You always were so fragile,” he mocked, his voice dripping with contempt.

My cheek throbbed with each thrum of my pulse, the ache radiating down my neck and into my shoulder. For a moment, I was dizzy, disoriented—but not defeated.

I forced myself to remember why I had to survive this.

For Dimitri. For Giovanni. For Marco. For Tommas.

I couldn’t stop fighting, so I didn’t.

Thrashing and bucking, using everything I had to try and get him off of me, I took a swing at his ribs. He blocked my punch with ease, but the movement shifted his weight just enough for me to thrust my knee upward, striking him square in the crotch.

Vincent doubled over with a guttural curse, his grip on me loosening as he clutched his balls. I didn’t waste a single second. Scrambling backward, I got onto my hands and knees andcrawled desperately across the floor until my fingers brushed the cold metal of the gun. I seized it, staggering to my feet, and whirled around. Shaking violently from adrenaline and fear, I aimed at him with as much steadiness as I could muster.

Face twisted with rage and pain, Vincent rose. With practiced ease, he trained his weapon on me in return, holding it in one hand almost casually, like shooting and killing me would have no real impact on his life, while I contemplated how badly murdering someone would stain my soul.

“You won’t do it,” he remarked, more a statement than a question. His confidence was infuriatingly maddening. He truly believed I was still the same scared Omega who’d cower and flinch at his commands.

Memories surged up like a tidal wave—every awful, unspeakable thing he and his brothers had ever done to me. My stomach churned as bile scalded my throat, but beyond the fear, beyond the shame and humiliation, was red hot anger.

Slowly, my hesitation—and my morals—ebbed.

“Go on,micia,” he goaded. “Prove me wrong.”

I steadied my grip, trying to will my hands to stop their traitorous trembling. The barrel wavered, tracking Vincent’s chest, then his head, then back to his chest.

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