Page 11 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, his voice low and menacing, any trace of charm long gone.

Fear claws at my throat as I try to pull away, but my body isn’t cooperating. I’m dizzy, disoriented, and my mind screams at me to run, but my feet are glued to the floor.

“Let go of me!” I manage to choke out, my voice weaker than I intended.

Jack’s grip tightens. “Come on, Rhea. Don’t make this difficult,” he growls. His face close to mine now, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. I push against him, my arms weak, my mind clouded, but he doesn’t budge.

His grip tightens, and he drags me further into the room, kicking the door closed with a force that sends a chill down my spine. My heart races as panic sets in, adrenaline surging through me, but my limbs are sluggish, the alcohol and haze of the night weighing me down. I try to twist free, clawing at his arm, but he’s strong—his grip like a vice around my wrist as he forces me toward the bed.

Before I can scream, he shoves me onto the mattress, the impact knocking the breath out of my lungs. The room spins violently, and I barely register the sensation of him crawling over me, his weight pinning me down, suffocating me.

“Stop! Get off me!” I manage to gasp, trying to push him away.

But he doesn’t stop. His hands are everywhere, rough and insistent. I thrash beneath him, my heart pounding in my ears. Panic claws at my throat as his face looms closer, the smell of alcohol and sweat suffocating me. I try to kick, to shove him off, but my strength is no match for his.

Every fiber of my being screams for escape, but my body is betraying me, heavy and uncooperative under his weight.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against my neck and something snaps inside me–fear turns to rage. I buck against him with everything I have left, managing to slam my knee into his side. He grunts and his grips loosens enough for me to scramble out from under him. I push him away and stumble towards the door, panic urging me on.

But before I can get to it, he lunges at me, grabbing me by my arm. I scream, adrenaline blinding me. I grab the first thing that feels solid and swing it at his head.

A loud shatter pierces my ears and glass shards rain down on both of us, glittering in the dim light. I take the part I’m holding and scream again, smashing that into the side of his face. He staggers back, clutching his head, a shocked look flashing across his face. His hair is drenched with tequila, but I spot a darkliquid start to flow down his face, pooling around his hand where he’s clutching his head. Blood. The sight of it sending a fresh wave of panic through me.

A shocked look flashes across his face, quickly replaced by rage and he lunges at me again. I feel his wet, bloodied hand smear across my skin, my shirt as I stumble away from him. He staggers and comes at me again, his eyes unfocused but rage filled.

I panic and shove him away, he trips backwards and slams against a bureau head first. A spray of blood erupts from the impact, and I feel it splash against my clothes and skin. Wide eyed, I watch him collapse to the floor, a rapidly growing pool of blood around his head.

He jerks weakly then stills.

My heart drops.

He’s dead.

He’s fucking dead.

A scream threatens to rip out of me but I force it down, swallowing the rising terror, my hands tremble uncontrollably as I stare at his lifeless body, the pool of blood spreading, dark and viscous. I know I need to run, to escape but my feet feel frozen, rooted to the spot.

I can’t breathe.

My mind races, a storm of fear and disbelief crashing together. This can’t be happening, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I didn’t want this.

The sound of laughter and music suddenly filters through the door, and I snap back to reality. It is a jarring reminder of the world continuing outside this nightmare. I force myself to move, to step away from the gruesome scene, my stomach twisting in knots.

I need to leave, to get as far away from here as possible.

But how do I explain this? How do I walk out of here like nothing happened when my clothes are stained with blood?

The window.

My heart pounds in my chest as I stumble towards the window in the corner. My fingers are slick with sweat as I try to undo the latch and push the window open.

I manage to force the glass upwards and stick my head outside. The chilly fall air caresses my face as I glance around. There’s a tree close by, a thick branch a hand’s breadth from the ledge.

My hands are slick with sweat as I begin to crawl through, my heart pounding in my ears. I manage to put one leg out when the bedroom door swings open, banging against the wall.

The masked stranger stands in the doorway, his imposing figure filling the room, casting a shadow that stretches toward me. My breath catches in my throat as his hollow eyes flicks to Jack’s prone, bleeding body and then to me.

The black mask, now eerily familiar, hides his face, but the tension radiating from him is unmistakable.

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