Fuck.
We stare at each other for what seems like hours but, in reality, is probably just a few seconds before he lunges for me. I think I’d anticipated it as I turn and bolt back through the door, slamming it shut behind me. I’m around the corner of the garage when I hear him opening the door with a grunt of frustration.
Split-second decision time… run screaming for the road or go for a weapon.
I veer left, leap over the three porch steps to the side kitchen door, and fly through it. I manage to hit it perfectly with my hand to slam it shut, knowing that it’s unlocked and won’t keep him out, but it will give me a precious second or two while he has to open it.
I’m through the living room when he comes crashing through the door, snarling—and in my mind, gnashing those rotten teeth. I hurdle up the stairs, taking two at a time but go crashing down when his hand grabs hold of my ankle. I’m not sure if it’s training or self-preservation, but the minute my torso slams into the stairs, I kick my free foot back and catch Wade somewhere in the face. He grunts, releases his hold on me, and I scramble back up.
He’s up too, and all I can think about is getting to my room where I have my bullwhip in my backpack on my bed. But the minute I step foot into my room, I know I need to slow him down just a second or two, so I’m grabbing my butterfly lamp from my table. It’s only about seven inches in height, but it has a hefty metal base, and the plug jerks easily out of the wall as I throw myself across my bed. By the time I’m popping up and turning, Wade is lurching through my doorway.
I cock my right arm back, then throw the lamp at him as hard as I can. As it sails through the air, I dive for the leather holster cradling the coil of my whip. When Wade turns, the lamp hits him in the shoulder and the Tiffany glass shatters. I don’t have time to mourn the loss of my father’s last gift to me as I have the handle of the whip in hand, the thong and fall laying loosely on the floor at my side, and the awful, horrid realization the wall to my bedroom is directly at my back.
Meaning I’ve got no room to strike.
My hesitation costs me as Wade flings himself across my bed, far more nimble than his size would seem to indicate, and I don’t have room to go anywhere. He crashes into me, takes me into the wall so I’m falling into it, and my breath is knocked clean out of me. The force of the impact knocks my whip out of my hand and it falls to the floor. Wade then flings me around and slams me down on top of my bed. While much softer than the wall, I’m already hurting from the collision with the wall and dizzy to boot. I practically see stars when his huge body comes slamming down onto mine, and I can barely breathe.
“I only took a kiss from your friend,” Wade says, his voice turning guttural with excitement before promising, “Going to take so much more from you.”
I manage to get my hands to his shoulders, but my efforts to push him off are futile. He doesn’t even need to constrain me with the sexual compulsion he used at the bar, as he’s simply just stronger and bigger than me. He starts lowering that gray and rotting mouth toward my face, and my body starts bucking in an effort to throw him off. He’s too heavy, though, and I’m now in a position where my options are incredibly limited.
His face is within inches of mine, his breath hot and fetid against me, and I have to force myself not to gag. Just before his lips touch mine, I make a heaving lurch of my upper body, stretching my neck to the limits, and manage to land a direct hit of my hard-as-hell forehead to the delicate and soft bridge of his nose.
Wade howls in pain, rolling partially off me while holding his face and throwing out curses as black blood pours from his nostrils. Carrick told me once that fae and daemons have black blood, and Wade has copious amounts of it.
He’ll recover quickly, though, and I manage to wiggle out from under him, rolling right off the end of the bed and dropping to the floor where my whip had fallen.
Snatching the handle, I push myself up, ignoring the dizziness and nausea I’m fairly sure is not only the result of my head cracking against the wall, but the foul smell of fae breath. I know there is no room in here to defend myself with a whip, and Wade is already struggling up to his feet. I make a quick decision to get out of the house, precariously flying down the stairs, careening off the wall at the base, and shooting straight toward the kitchen door we’d run through just moments before.