Page 119 of Runaways

"Oh, shit. You did jump in the grave. I was wondering what was taking so long. Did you know she wore wigs?"

eighteen

I Like the Ones Where the Bad Guys Get Away

Noah

Slowly, silently, I look up. My eyes go wide when I see Tate sitting on one ofmybarstools, drinkingmyvodka while watchingmytelevision after I just spent hours in a cold, dark hole crying for him to save me. I grit my teeth, rage coursing through my veins.

There are no fucking words.

"Wow. You look fucking crazy right now," he says casually.

"I'm going to kill you."

He looks at me like maybe he misheard me, and maybe he did. My register is lower than usual, my teeth clenched and breath short.

"What?"

"I said…I'm going to fucking kill you!"

I grab the porcelain lamp from the nightstand, pull its cord from the wall, and hurl it across the room. Tate ducks before it can hit him, and it shatters against the cabinets and falls onto the kitchen floor. I look for something—anything else—I could use to hurt him. I grab the wooden coat rack from beside thedoor next, taking a few steps forward before I fling it across the room.

"Shit!" Tate yells, this time falling off of the barstool and onto the floor when he dodges it. And he laughs. He's fucking laughing by the time I reach him. I pick up one of the barstools and bring it down over his back.

"I hate you!" I shout before hitting him with it again. "Ifuckinghate you!"

"Stop!" he yells, grabbing the barstool by one of its legs before I can hit him with it a third time. "Fucking stop!"

We struggle with the piece of furniture between us until Tate pulls himself onto his knees, giving himself more leverage, and he flings me into the kitchen cabinets, forcing me to lose my grip. I hit my head hard, seeing stars behind my eyes as I fall onto the hardwood floor.

I rub the back of my head before pulling myself up onto all fours.

Tate stands quickly, tossing the barstool behind him, and holds out his hands innocently. "Okay, that was an accident," he says. "That was your fault. You came at me like a fucking lunatic; what was I supposed to do?"

But all I see is red. I reach over and grab a shard of the shattered porcelain, gripping it tightly in my hand. Then I pull myself to my feet and bring it back behind my head.

"Noah…don't. Don't make me hurt you."

I don't listen. I scream, lunging at him, and he attempts to stop me by grabbing my arms, but I have momentum on my side. I bury the tip of that shard into his shoulder, using as much force as I can get behind it while watching blood fromthe shallow wound soak through his grey t-shirt. I know it's not good enough; I know I didn't do much damage, but it's still so fucking satisfying, and I don't give up. We fight for control, and, realizing I won't be able to dig any deeper, I drag the sharp end downward, unfazed as it slices into my fingers.

"Fuck!" Tate screams. He's forced to release my left wrist, using both hands to stop me. With my left hand now free, I grab at his face, digging my thumb into his eye socket while he pulls the porcelain shard out of his shoulder and then tries prying it from my fingers.

"Stop! It's done, Noah!" he says, pushing my hand away from his face. "Let go! You're only hurting yourself."

"Fuck you!" I yell before sinking my teeth into his chest. Hot coppery blood fills my mouth, and there's no gag reflex this time. I'm going to bite off a piece of Tate, spit it in his mouth, and make him fucking eat himself.

"Ahhh! Godfuckingdamn it!"

He shakes me off, and I fall on my ass beside the other nightstand. "What thefuck,Noah?!" he shouts before pulling his t-shirt over his head. The gash in his shoulder isn't too deep, but it's a few inches long and bloody, as are the teeth marks. It gives me a weird sense of pride. Tate is probably going to kill me, but before, he said I haunted him—that I was like a missing limb—and now, I've marked him. He'll have to see me every time he looks in the goddamn mirror. He'll have to know Silas sees me on his naked body every time they fuck.

How's that for haunted?

He wipes at the wounds with the t-shirt before tossing it aside, and I laugh.

"Jesus. Have you lost your fucking mind?!"

"Yes." I grab the other lamp, intending to smash it and use it as a weapon, too.

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