“Yes.”
“Cuff them with their arms behind their backs.”
Revulsion filled her at the sound of Phillip giving her orders. Revulsion and resolve. He didn’t have that privilege. For the last year, her whole life had been a daily fight, trying to fix the things Phillip had broken in her. And right when she was getting her feet under her and her confidence back, he was going to waltz in here and act like he had a right to her, had a right to hurt the people she cared about? Fuck. Him. She wasn’t going to let him do this to her again.
By the time she made her way over to Colby and Keats, her hands were steady. She kneeled down next to them. “Give me your hands.”
Both followed her directions but Colby peered back over his shoulder, whispering. “Don’t do this. These don’t have a release. We can’t get out without the key.”
She gave a slight shake of her head. Don’t talk.
The cuffs snapped in place, securing both of them.
Phillip stalked over and gave the chains a tug. “The real police issue stuff, huh? Sick fuckers. Give me that rope. I want to make sure these two don’t try anything.”
Georgia stood, and she schooled her expression into one of cool calm, despite the frantic, careening thoughts in her head. She pictured herself that first night she’d walked over to Colby’s house. I am in control of my body. She headed over to the discarded rope. It’d been sliced open—like Colby had been in a rush to get Keats untied—but there was enough length to make it work for Phillip’s needs. She rubbed her thumb over the frayed edges of the cut ends before handing it over to Phillip.
“While you’re doing that, why don’t I get the bed cleared off?” she suggested.
He flicked the barrel of the gun her way. “Strip it to the mattress.”
Phillip tucked the gun in his waistband and went to work tying the men’s ankles and looping rope through the cuffs. This would be her only chance.
She put her back to them, busying one hand with tugging off the sheets. With the other, she opened Colby’s bedside drawer, praying she hadn’t misheard him that first night they’d spent in his room. And praying Colby hadn’t left it somewhere else tonight.
“Something wrong, sweetheart?” Phillip said, his voice too close.
She jumped, balling her hands in the sheets. “Fine.”
He stepped closer and peered over her shoulder into the open drawer, which contained a TV remote, a novel, and condoms. Phillip gave a low laugh. “We won’t be needing those.”
“I’m not on the pill anymore,” she lied.
He kissed the side of her neck. “Good. I’d love to have my baby growing inside you.”
The shudder that went through her couldn’t be stopped, but Phillip must’ve read it as anticipation instead of abject terror. Fucking sociopath.
He trailed kisses down along her shoulder and she felt the gun, still tucked in his pants, press against her spine with cold certainty. His hands wrapped around her and cupped her breasts. She gritted her teeth and tried to shut her body off from connecting to her brain. This wasn’t happening to her. Phillip wasn’t touching her. That wasn’t what she needed to focus on.
She took a deep breath. “Kiss me.”
He made a pleased sound behind her. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that. Turn around, sweetheart.”
She spun around slowly, still gripping the sheets in her hands, and he pulled the gun out of his waistband. He set it in the drawer behind her and closed it. “We don’t need to worry about that ugliness for now. Come here.”
He gathered her to him and his dry lips met hers. She waited until he closed his eyes, which seemed to be the longest second of her life, and then she dropped the sheets and wound her arms around his waist. His tongue parted her lips, and he took her face in his hands. He tasted of cinnamon gum. He’d always tasted of cinnamon gum.
She remembered his breath on her that day in the kitchen. Remembered what happened afterward. Remembered giving the eulogy at her sister’s funeral. She ground her hips against him, making soft, sexy sounds, and hit the button on the switchblade.
Phillip’s body stiffened for a fraction of a second before she drew her hand back and jabbed with every bit of strength she had. The blade went into his lower back clean. And the scream that came out of him landed half on her lips.
“You fucking bitch!” he shouted, reaching for the point of entry with a crazed swipe of his arm.
She shoved him hard, getting some space between them, and lunged for the drawer. The knife had stayed lodged in his back when he’d jerked away from her, but there was something more effective she was after. The gun wasn’t like the one she practiced with at the range in Chicago. It was heavier, bigger, and had some silencer thing screwed on the end. But she turned around, channeling everything she’d been through, everyone she’d lost, and aimed it right at Phillip.
His fingers were covered with blood, and he had the knife in his hands. He stumbled toward her, cold rage in his eyes.
It was the thing of her nightmares. The vision that had spawned so many panic attacks she’d lost count. Phillip was going to finally kill her. He would win.