He fell onto his back, choking and smiling through a gurgle of blood. “The bridge.”
Her heart stopped and restarted. “How do you know about that? What does it have to do with you?”
With a strangled laugh, he grabbed her throat and wrenched her ear against his mouth. “Thur…nnnn…eee.”
She tried to jerk away, but he had a death grip on her neck. He’d lost too much blood to be this strong.
Her hands moved without thought, grabbing the knife, sliding it from his belly, and thrusting it back in. Again. Again. The fist on her throat dropped away as she continued to stab him.
Over and over, she aimed for vital organs—stomach, heart, neck, lungs. She was hitting ribs, struggling to spear the blade past bones. But he wasn’t moving. Didn’t appear to be breathing.
With a jolt, she broke out of her fugue and scooted away, taking the knife and his gun with her.
Numbness spread over her as she sat in the dark, gulping, unmoving in a crippled state of shock and horror.
She needed to do something. Close the door. Wash her hands. Turn off the shower. Check his pulse.
No. Fuck, no. She didn’t want to touch him.
Blood soaked his clothes, the floor, her fingers, the knife. So much of it. Everywhere. He couldn’t be alive. No way.
Still, she didn’t twitch a muscle, too terrified a sound might resurrect him.
He’d come here to kill her. If she hadn’t checked the window, he would’ve succeeded.
Who in the hell would go through the trouble of killing her? Why? He’d mentioned the bridge, but it didn’t make sense. Was someone offended that she contemplated suicide ten years ago?
Mason didn’t know about that. No one knew about it.
Except Tommy.
No. It wasn’t possible. Tommy wouldn’t have sent this man. If he wanted her dead, he would’ve done it himself.
Minutes passed, and the flow of her adrenaline slowed, bringing awareness to her body, to the pain in her face and back and the uncontrollable shaking in her limbs.
She wiped the knife on her pants, cleaning off the blood. More covered her hands. She needed to get moving.
The sound of an approaching car pierced through her daze. Headlights illuminated the open doorway. Doors slammed. Footsteps advanced.
Her stomach tightened, and she whimpered.
More hitmen? A backup team for the man she’d just killed? Goddammit, she couldn’t fight off another attack.
Scooting backward in the dark, she slid between the mattress and wall, set the knife under the bed, and aimed the gun with both hands. It was out of bullets, but they wouldn’t know that.
Hidden by the bed, she ducked down low, tucking into a ball, and tried to control the torrent of her breaths.
The tread of heavy boots crossed the threshold. Multiple intruders.
Oh, God, I’m dead. I’m dead. So fucking dead.
The overhead lights illuminated, blinding her eyes. Curled up on the floor, she aimed the gun upward, and another gun pointed back.
“Rylee.” Tommy stood over her, his face set in stone, eyes bloodshot, and posture vibrating with unleashed fury. “Lower the gun.”
Relief, distrust, fear, anger—so many emotions battled inside her. She didn’t move.
“He’s dead,” a deep, masculine voice said. Chillingly deep. “No wallet or ID.”
“Rylee, lower the gun,” Tommy said in his domineering tone.
“Fuck you.”
The owner of the unfamiliar voice stepped into view and snatched her next breath. “You’re one woman against a gang of bloodthirsty savages.”
Savage was one way to describe him. Short brown hair. Razor-sharp eyes. Powerfully built. The faded scar that divided his cheek didn’t detract from his chiseled beauty. His smirk did. A lethal smirk, that curled arrogantly around a toothpick.
Van.
The monster who had captured and raped Tommy nine years ago.
“Don’t underestimate her.” Tommy gave her the full force of his eyes while addressing Van. “I’d rather take on you and your attic than this hellcat.”
What the fuck? He must be joking.
“I can arrange that.” Van clapped him on the back and ambled toward the bathroom.
The shower turned off, and he prowled back through the room, joining the din of footsteps and hushed voices that gathered outside the door.
Tommy unchambered the live round in his gun and wedged the weapon into the back of his jeans.
She tightened her grip on the pistol in her hands. “How did you find me?”
“We had a tail on the hitman.” He tipped his chin in the direction of the corpse, his expression unreadable. “You butchered him.”
“He deserved it.”
He went still, no part of him moving except his gaze, which darted over her, probing, flaring darkly. Deadly eyes. Hypnotic. God, the man was beautiful when he was contemplating murder. “Did he hurt you?”
“I’ve been hurt worse. Most recently, on your watch.”
“Yeah, I hurt you. Unjustly. Unforgivably. So shoot me.” He lowered to a crouch, leaning into the crack where she huddled, sucking all the oxygen. “Pull the fucking trigger.”
The gun rattled. Her breaths shook.