Page 65 of The Venom We Bleed

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.My eyes shoot open and dart around the room.

The sheets surrounding me have long since stolen the heat from my body and a shiver moves through me. The nightmare lingering at the back of my mind hovers close, blurring the line between the waking world and the dreaming one.Is he here? Has he come back for me? There’s nothing stopping him now. He can do whatever he wants. Again and again.

I blink, taking in the familiar surroundings of my own apartment. No, it was a dream. It’s not real.Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.My body stiffens beneath the covers. All remaining drowsiness evaporates, and I’m suddenly wide awake. My heart hammers against my ribcage as adrenaline surges into my veins. Something had woken me. A sound that should not be there.

Forcing my body to go lax beneath the blankets over me, I remain still, not wanting to give away my consciousness just yet. My breath saws in and out as I strain my ears for any other sound in the darkness. Then it's there again. The soft snick of a lock clicking out of place.

No, maybe I justthinkthat's what it is. It could be a scratching of one of the trees on my window ... never mind that the branches don't reach that far into the balcony. It's possible with wind, right?

Creak. Swoosh. Creak.

I close my eyes with a silent curse. There’s no denying that sound nor the sudden rushing chill of air flooding my apartment. I don’t need to roll over to know that the glass door leading to the tiny balcony off the main room of my studio is open. All of my hopeful thoughts die bloody deaths.

Idiot. I'm such a fucking idiot. I hadn't blocked the track because I’d thought being on the second floor would be enough of a deterrent.

To my surprise, it isn't fear that streams through me at the realization that someone has broken into my apartment—it's pure, raw fury. It burns hot behind my eyes. It’s not fucking fair. As if my life isn't hard enough with the shit I have to put up with at school, but now some asshole thinks they can break into my home—even if it is a shitty excuse for one—and terrorize me.

I lie still, letting them draw closer as I consider my options. Even if I manage to call the cops, what will they actually do? Silver Creek Apartments is under the Silverwood Police Department jurisdiction, and no one there will care if anything happens to Allen Donovan's daughter. My fingers curl inward as more rage pours through me. It's not fucking fair. I didn't ask for any of this.

The quiet in the room is full of phantom tension. It ramps up and up some more as the heartbeat in my ears makes it impossible to listen for the intruder. There's only one reason a stranger would break into my apartment and it's not to steal.

They're here for me.

Bile coats the back of my tongue with an acidic flavor that makes me want to vomit. I stem the urge, swallowing againstthe need to both puke and scream. Pinpricks touch the bare flesh of my arms and travel both up and down, covering the rest of my skin as alarm bells sound in my head.It's as if they're yelling, "Danger! Danger! Danger!"

Yeah, I already know that. Now, I have to do something about it.

Not allowing myself to think better of my actions, I fake a yawn and stretch beneath the sheets. The footsteps on the floor of my apartment freeze. I keep my eyes slitted as I roll over on my futon and face the open sliding glass doors. The dark figure standing just inside, barely three feet from my makeshift bed, is every one of my nightmares come to life and it pisses me the hell off.

Whoever the man is, he's tall and lanky—though there's no denying his gender. The rotten stench of cigarette smoke and male body odor permeate the air, invading my senses like a disease looking for its next host. He takes a step towards me, and a stream of moonlight glances over his face—his uncovered face.

He's older than me by at least a decade or two. His face is a mask of lines and a scruff of beard growth covers the lower half of his face. Dark eyes glitter through the darkness and I can't make out their color. There's something wrong with this image. He's not even bothering to cover his identity. Does that mean he plans to kill me? Or ... that he knows no one will care what he does to me. Whatever the reason, the image of his face—a human version of a monster—sends me into action like nothing else. I bolt forward. Sitting up and flinging the covers free of my legs, I launch myself from the futon and tackle him to the floor.

I don't even stop to consider whether or not the intruder has a weapon or what he could be here to do—murder me or just to scare the shit out of me. I'm too angry for any of that. Adrenaline surges through my body, making the world slowdown as I throw the first punch, slamming my fist into the side of his face. The responding grunt is all masculine annoyance.

I find myself atop a solidly built chest and despite the wiry form, I can tell that he's got at least fifty pounds on me.

"Shit." The curse hisses out of my chest. Bulky arms close around me and the man rises to standing—an impressive feat considering I'm bucking and kicking the shit out of his thighs and calves and pretty much anything my legs can reach. Not that he seems to notice. No, the man just walks back over to my bed and slams me down.

Stomach acid threatens to come up my throat and I bow upward, trying to throw him off to no avail. My heart beats double-time as my breaths come in shorter bursts. I punch at his chest. He comes down on top of me. Hard hips press into mine, pinning me to the sagging futon mattress, and hot breath, stained with the acrid smell of tobacco, invades my lungs. This time, I can't stop the gag as I force myself to turn away, pressing my cheek into the sheets even as my hands are gripped and brought up over my head.No. No. No.After everything else I've been through, I can't bear this too. Not again. The universe is asking too much.

Or maybe the universe isn't asking at all. Hell, there's no explanation for my twisted luck over the past few months. Dad in jail. Mom MIA. No friends. No boyfriend. No one to care if this man takes one more thing from the town pariah.

The only one who can save me is me—the only one who cares is me. Still, I can't help the words that come out of my mouth in rapid pants. "Why are you doing this?"

The man doesn't respond. The only sound echoing between us is the heavy breathing. The only smell is nicotine mixed with old and new sweat.

I grit my teeth. "Fucking tell me," I demand, bucking again, throwing my hips against him in a fruitless attempt to throwhim off. It doesn't work. Surprise, surprise. He doesn't answer and I close my eyes as I contemplate my options. I try to think back to Cory's training, but the harder I try to remember the more my mind races away from it. Frustration wells up inside me, and my eyes begin to burn. Then the nearly soundless click of a switchblade opening has me jerking against his hold and my eyes shoot open once more. A flash of metal passes in front of my face and the intruder finally speaks.

"Don't move," he warns me, voice deep and gravelly—like a man who's smoked at least two packs of cigarettes a day for a decade or more. "Or you'll regret it."

Ice floods my arteries.Or I'll regret it?Why doIhave to be the one with regret? Why can't it be everyone else?

I barely feel the blade as he skims my cheek with the flat side. The metal is no colder than the ice inside me. Down, down, down—the blade disappears from my sight but not from my body. The metal presses against my lower stomach where my sleep shirt has ridden up to reveal the stretch of skin above my pajama bottoms. The man turns it deftly, as if the weapon is a part of his body and easy to maneuver. With a sharp jerk, he yanks his hand up. My shirt pulls tight before it loosens far more than it should. When the thin cotton fabric of my pajama bottoms does the same a moment later and air slides over flesh exposed to the air, the room begins to spin.

Like that scene from the Wizard of Oz, everything rises up and floats for a moment before it begins to swirl at lightning speed, taking me with it. Around and around, I go until all I can feel is the wind against my sides and face. Witches on bicycles. Spinning Houses. A tornado from another world forces me to leave this plain even as my body remains firmly planted on the futon and the stranger cuts away the rest of my clothes and then my underwear.

This place feels frighteningly familiar. Like I’ve been here before and just like back then, I don’t fit.

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