Page 198 of Deliverance

The next thing I know, I’m armed with a thick, worn out Bible I pulled out of the nightstand drawer, which makes the phraseGod help metake on a whole new meaning, but there’s no time to look for something else.

In the other room, Rhys is done washing dishes and I tiptoe toward the door to see what he’s up to. Not the smartest move, but he’s not aware I took boxing lessons and know a good number of offensive maneuvers.

And I’m not going to check out like during our last meeting.

Luck is on my side. Rhys is standing next to the table with his back to me, totally unaware that we’re separated by merely a few feet of empty space. My eyes dart to the knife set on the counter.

Without warning, I leap forward, the book landing on the back of his head, but the impact of the blow isn’t enough to bring him down. However, what’s worse is that I lose my footing.

Together, we propel to the floor, catching the chair in the process.

“I knew you were up to something,” Rhys growls, grabbing my hands.

Not happening. Especially since my next move is a kick to his groin. He howls, his grasp weakening, which is all I need to get to the counter and snatch one of the knives from the wooden block.

I pick the biggest one.

My fingers tremble. My legs wobble. My wrists feel like they’ve been skinned while I was awake. My whole body throbs and rages while my instincts are screaming.

As I turn around to face Rhys, he’s pushing himself up off the floor, one palm still over the spot I kneed.

“Whore.”

“No, I’m not,” I say. I don’t know why I need to voice this in front of him, but I do. The knife in my grip shakes when I raise and point it at him.

“Yes, you are. And you’re going to get what you deserve, Andrea.” He straightens but doesn’t approach me yet, although the darkness in his eyes tells me he’s not really understanding what’s happening, he’s not understanding that I’m the one with the sharp object.

“You know what you are, Rhys?” I steady my hand. I don’t want him to think I’m still the same docile girl he met a decade ago.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “I’m your husband and you’ll do what I tell you to do.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

His expression shifts into something morose.

“You’re pathetic,” I say, my voice growing loud and strong, and the knife doesn’t feel heavy anymore. “You’re not even man enough to make a woman want to fuck you without tying her up.”

He advances toward me.

“Stay the fuck back or I’ll gut you.” I don’t mean it. I don’t think I have it in me to gut someone, but I can’t control the words that are leaving my mouth anymore. I’ve done it for years. Pretended to be someone I’m not.

“You won’t.” Rhys shakes his head once, taking another step.

The distance between us shrinks to a dangerously small space of nothing.

I readjust my grip. “I mean it, don’t even think about coming any closer.”

First, he just stares at me, his features all twisted up and wrong. Then he lurches forward, ignoring the fact that I gave him a warning.

I underestimated how unhinged the man I was married to really is. He also underestimated my desire to keep my promise.

The blade slices across his ribs, ripping through skin and sinew, as his body slams into mine. The knife nearly falls from my hand, but I don’t let go, even as my torso crashes against the counter. It’s the only weapon I have and I’m not losing it. Instead, I take advantage of his wound and punch him right above the cut, where the blood has already begun to soak through the thick fabric of his shirt and sweater.

Rhys stumbles.

I bolt for what I hope is the front door, my bare feet slapping against the loose floorboards.

At first, I don’t feel anything.

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