Page 94 of Sins He Taught Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 3)

Hopeless because I know that when Rogers returns, he’s going to cut my finger off and I’ll have no chance of getting away from him.

He’s stronger than me. He’s bigger than me. What can I do to fight him off?

I search the room, looking in every corner for something. Maybe a loose nail or a wooden board that I can tear from the floor and use as a weapon. For a moment, I envision myself finding a way down into the foundation, where I can crawl out from the house by going underneath it.

It’s fruitless. Rogers cleaned this place spotless before he locked me in here. The only thing I have is the dust and the plate. My eyes slide over to the wooden stool that Rogers left on his way out, and I could kick myself for not seeing it before. It was right there in front of me.

Rogers is going to cut my finger off, and Matvei still won’t come. No matter how much I feel for him, no matter how much I love Matvei, he isn’t going to come for me.

If I do nothing, Rogers will permanently scar me for no reason, something I’ll have to deal with for the rest of my life—however long he decides to let that last.

I’m not going to give the bastard the chance to do that.

I grab the stool and test its weight, pulling it back and swinging it down into thin air.

It’ll take a moment to connect, but if I time it right when Rogers steps into the room, I can knock him down and take him out. The second I do, I know that I can’t stop hitting him. I have to kill him, right then and there.

It’s either that or let him slice off one of my fingers. I’ll go down swinging if that’s the case.

It’s what Matvei would do.

I slip into the corner of the room and press myself tight between the two walls, going through my plan over and over again.

The door will swing inward, blocking me from view.

For a moment, I’ll be invisible.

That’s when I attack.

* * *

My heart beats a million times a minute, and I struggle to keep my hands from shaking. It only gets worse when I hear thudding footsteps down the hall. I step forward and bring the wooden stool above my head, waiting. Every second seems to draw out ten times as long.

The door swings open.

Rogers steps inside the room, looks around.

Frowns when he doesn’t see me.

That’s when I bring the chair down on his head.

CRASH.

“Fuck!” he shouts, collapsing to the floor.

I bring the chair down again, cracking it against the back of his head.

While he’s down, I begin to kick him as hard as I can, swift shots to his kidney and his stomach. He reaches for the bag of fallen tools and I stomp on his hand, kicking the bag away.

My breaths are ragged as I dive for the bag that he bought. There’s a sharp blade inside, and I scramble to pull it from the packaging.

Before I can, Rogers tackles me to the floor, rolling me onto my back.

“Get off me!” I scream, clawing at his face and digging my nails into his skin. I draw blood, my fingers slick with crimson, and Rogers grabs my hair. He slams my head into the floor. A flash of light crosses my eyes and I feel everything become dizzy.

He slams me again, and then a third time.

Black pain lances across my eyes. I struggle to keep conscious.

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