Maybe this time isn’t like all the others. Maybe this time, he’s really snapped. Maybe this time, he is going to do what he’s always threatened: ruin me because I’m the one thing left under his control.
I spot the stray knife lying carelessly on the counter next to the fridge. I grab it and hold it up just as Drago lunges down towards me again. I just want to scare him away from me. I just want him to leave me alone.
But both our eyes go wide when he charges forward despite the knife between us… and the naked blade sinks into his stomach.
When he pulls back, he looks stunned.
Then his gaze falls slowly to the gushing wound in his lower abdomen.
“Oh my God…” I breathe.
I look down at my shaking hand. It’s still holding the knife. A knife whose blade is coated in blood so bright it barely looks real.
I drop it, sending little drops of red flying everywhere. My brother stumbles back, his hand falling against the wound as he tries to stop the bleeding. He hits the wall and slumps slowly to the floor.
“You… you fucking stabbed me…”
I’m still shaking when I reach for my cell phone. 9-1-1 is hard to type with fingers trembling as bad as mine are. I fumble again and again, but somehow, I dial.
“Help!” I scream into the phone as soon as it picks up. I can’t hear what the person on the other end is saying, so I just scream it again. “Help! Help! Help!”
The phone falls out of my bloodstained hands. I leave it where it is, that tinny first responder voice still calling out, “Hello? Hello?”
Scrambling forward, I grab one of the kitchen towels that’s hanging from the oven door and fall to my knees beside Drago. “I’m sorry,” I gasp breathlessly as I try to staunch the blood flow with the kitchen towel. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flicker over my face. “Not… not as sorry… as you’re gonna be…”
Despite the fact that he’s gasping for breath, the threat still carries weight.
I leave the towel in his hands and back away slowly. He grabs my hand, his nails digging into my skin. But he’s weak enough that I manage to shake off his grip and clamber to my feet.
That’s when I hear a gentle knocking at the door. “They’re here,” I gasp. “Thank fucking God.”
I rush to the door anyway, praising the heavens for the quick response time. But the moment I throw it open, I freeze. The fear I’m already feeling thickens. It spreads through my body until I feel like I’m being consumed whole.
The man at my door is definitely not a police officer, or an EMT, or a firefighter, or anyone who can help me at all.
But I know him.
I’ve only ever seen him once in my life—when I was five years old on the day of my father’s wedding.
But I’d remember that face anywhere.
A devil with an angel’s eyes.
The face of my nightmares.
The bane of my brother’s existence.
It’s Kian O’Sullivan.