Page 167 of His Forced Bride
I have only a split second to react to her change in stance, and my body lurches before I can finish thinking through what I must do.
I throw myself sideways as the gun fires, the bullet shattering the window where I stood moments before.
Glass cascades downward as I roll behind the sofa, using it for cover while she adjusts her aim.
"You can't escape this," she calls, and she seems eerily calm now.
"I know every corner of this room. There's nowhere to hide."
The second shot punches through the leather near my head, stuffing exploding in all directions.
She's correct about knowing the space but wrong about my intentions.
I'm not hiding.
I'm positioning myself for counterattack.
The vodka glass sits on the bar within reach.
Moving quickly, I grab it and hurl it at her head with all my strength.
She ducks instinctively, giving me the opening I need to charge forward.
We collide near the desk, both fighting desperately for control of the weapon.
She's older but fueled by years of rage and delusion. But my age doesn't diminish my rage or desperation.
The gun discharges again, the bullet embedding in the ceiling as we struggle.
Her fingernails rake across my face, drawing blood, while I drive my knee toward her ribs hard.
We crash into the desk, papers and objects scattering and falling to the floor.
"You ungrateful little bitch," she snarls, trying to angle the gun toward my head.
"I should've strangled you at birth rather than waste years loving you."
All pretense vanishes now.
There's no maternal warmth, no fake concern, just pure hatred for the daughter who dared reject her diseased version of love.
I slam her wrist against the desk edge repeatedly, trying to break her grip on the weapon.
She screams but holds on, bringing her free hand up to claw at my eyes with her fingernails.
We're both bleeding now, both reduced to feral desperation.
I manage to wrap my fingers around the gun barrel, twisting despite the heat from recent firing that burns my palm.
She pulls the trigger reflexively, but I've angled the weapon away from both our bodies.
The struggle becomes purely about physical strength now.
Whoever gains control lives.
Whoever loses dies.
The gun tears free suddenly, spinning away from both of us to clatter across the floor.
