Page 12 of In Death's Hands
That was a mistake. The shorter man suddenly turns to me and starts shouting. I don’t focus on the words, for I am scrambling to get on my feet, my body screaming in pain and panic.
I’m going through the door when a huge hand wraps itself around my arm and throws me to the floor. I land on my back, my vision blacking out for a second and coming back to focus on the big, ugly face of an unshaved man with a scar down his cheek. I don’t know why I focus on his scabbed scar when his hands are squeezing my neck, but I do.
Years of lessons finally kick in, my body reacting out of habit more than from any conscious order I give. My shoulders go up and my chin goes down on his hands, allowing a blessed trickle of air down my throat. In a move I’ve repeated over a hundred times with different body types on top of me, I lock my left leg over his and push my right hip up as far and as fast as it will go, adrenaline overriding the pain and fuelling the movement. A flicker of surprise shines in his brown eyes as he falls on his back, but I don’t stay to discuss self-defence moves, or even kick him in the nuts. As soon as I’m free, I’m back on my feet and running out of my place.
I’ve made another mistake, however. I forgot about the second guy. Before I can start down the stairs, two arms catch me around my middle, picking me up like I weigh nothing until my feet can’t feel the ground. I kick and scream so loud I wonderwhy no one has come to my aid yet. I hear the guy swearing as I kick his knees over and over again. His big hand tries to cover my mouth but I bite it so hard I taste blood. His, this time. The pleasure I feel is quickly overridden by panic as he walks backwards to drag me into my apartment.
Despair is like a heavy cloak slowing everything down. Like a movie scene in slow motion, I hear someone shouting, and a tingle of recognition runs down my spine. I’m still fighting with everything I’ve got, and I swear the whole building is shaking from my rage. The man turns to try to shut my door, but a hand stops it and forces it open like it’s nothing. Like my two attackers aren’t actively pushing it shut.
A head crowned with dark hair and blessed by eyes where the universe shines through comes into view and a whimper escapes me. Everything is still so slow. I see him take in the scene, his face becoming that of an ancient god of vengeance, his eyes sparking with fury. The light dims and I could swear there’s black smoke coming out of Nathan.
Incomprehensible shouts hurt my ears. I notice one of my attackers putting his hands up in a placating move as he backs away, but the room gets darker and darker and I’m suddenly out of the man’s hold, too fast for my legs to catch me. So, for what feels like the hundredth time in twenty-four hours, my heart rises in my chest as my body loses the battle against gravity. My ankle is the first to fold under my weight with a loud crack as the rest follows. But before I meet the ground, strong arms catch me. I don’t fight it this time. For some reason my body trusts those arms.
The last thing I see is Nathan’s anguished face as he stares down at me, and what looks like an army of shadows at his back.
I groan as I open my eyes. It takes me a moment to take in my surroundings with the influx of images from the attack. I see the big, ugly scar again as my own hand hovers over my painful neck. I swallow deeply, bypassing the hurt gathered there, and take inventory of my body.
My head doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Nothing hurts as much as I thought it would. There’s a dull pain in my ribs and breathing is difficult, but all in all I seem okay. Figures. I get savagely attacked for who knows what reason and still I’m in perfect health. My life doesn’t make any sense.
Reassured that nothing is broken despite my memory swearing that at least my nose, and probably a rib or two, had cracked upon the men’s blows, I’m finally ready to face where I am. Again.
The silk sheets were the first giveaway, but the view of the London skyline at night is confirmation enough.
Nathan’s bed is as comfortable as I remember it. Then again, I was in it just last night.
How is it that I keep passing out around this guy? Even for me, this is excessive. I have a lot more accidents than anyone else I’ve ever met, but I’ve never had two in less than twenty-four hours. And they were some of the most violent experiences I’ve ever had.
“Good, you’re awake.”
I jerk to a sitting position. My fears and questions are lulled by his appearance. He is still wearing the same clothes and the same look of concern I saw before I blacked out on him. In his hand is a tall glass of water that he silently offers me. When I’ve gulped down half its contents, he goes to lean against the large bay of windows to my right. “How are you feeling?”
I swallow, wincing slightly, and give him a little smile. “Surprisingly good, all things considered.”
He nods but doesn’t seem convinced. His eyes roam all over me, seeming to look for something.
Silence stretches between us, becoming an entity in its own right. I’m still sitting in his bed, wearing his clothes, and though he doesn’t seem put off by it, I’m embarrassed.
“Are you hungry?” he asks gently.
It takes a second for me to check in and realise that I am, in fact, starving. The last decent food I ate was the croissants Isaiah had packed for me, however long ago that was. I nod, not trusting my own voice.
“Take your time. I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.” He gives me a tight smile before quietly exiting the room.
I sigh as I run my hands over my face. I’m surprised when they come out clean and decide to make my way to the bathroom. I clench my teeth, bracing myself for the pain that is sure to spark when I get up, but nothing happens.
No pain in my ribs, nothing in my ankles either, although I distinctly remember feeling a crack. I don’t think I have it in me to be surprised anymore.
I ache for a long shower but don’t want to keep him waiting, and truth be told, I’m scared of what I’ll find on my body. I have not forgotten about the red star burning between my breasts, butI convince myself that it’ll be gone, just like everything else I’m sure happened.
Maybe I’m finally losing it after so many close calls.
I see to my needs and exit the bedroom quickly, looking for answers or distractions. I’m not sure which, honestly.
My eyes zero in on the soft light coming from the lit fireplace, and the need for distraction wins. I want to curl up in front of it with a good book and forget about everything. However, the fact that I’m in a fancy penthouse with a fireplace of all things is a clear indication that something has gone sideways in my life again.
The whole open space is pretty dark, allowing the city lights to shine in through the many windows. With the pops and cracks of the fire, I feel like I’m in a cocoon of peace with a window on the messy world outside. I can see the red and white lights of the cars but not a sound makes its way in here. Magic. Well, the magic of having money. My own flat is like Swiss cheese: cold air and city noises have no choice but to invite themselves in.
Thinking of my flat threatens to take down the wall I put up in my mind to barricade everything that’s happened. It’s getting packed in that corner of my head. From that first accident to the years of misery that followed, that wall has had to shield me from a lot. I even had to take the door off one day and brick the gaping hole it left. Now, when I need to put something in that space, I just push it through the tiny cracks that have formed over the years.
