I feint a direct thrust, then go wide. She doesn’t buy it. She reaches for a basket of mail and throws it at me. I bat it out of the way. In my peripheral vision, I see the basket hit the floor, the mail spill out.
Farah darts left, tries to run for the door. I cut her off. She reaches for the drainboard. A few dishes stand upright in the rack, drying. One at a time, she flings them at my head. I dodge the flying discs and ignore the crashes of shattering ceramic. There isn’t much else on the counter. She’s running out of ammunition.
I try again, lunging forward. She thrusts a chair in my path. I shove it aside and resume my charge. Her back hits the counter. She’s in the corner, but still, even trapped she doesn’t give up. I move in. She grabs my wrist, holding the stun gun away from her body. I push, but she is strong. We’re both panting from exertion. Her breath smells like coffee and chocolate. Our altercation feels as intimate as sex, maybe even more.
The space is too tight—our bodies are too close together for punching and kicking. She drives a knee toward my groin, but I turn my hips and take the blow on my thigh. Pain zings up my leg, but adrenaline quickly suppresses it.
I have her now. There’s nowhere for her to go. She can’t escape. She is trapped. I yank my arm downward, breaking her grip on my wrist and shoving the stun gun at her body.
Her shoulders twist. Where there is no room to extend her arm for a punch, she uses her elbow in a downward arc, circling her shoulder for maximum force. The hard bone strikes my nose at the same moment the stun gun finds a target against her ribs. Despite the spray of blood from my face, as soon as the device makes contact with her body, I know I’ve won. I press hard, hold the device steady, and count to five. Her body jolts, stiffens, and quivers as the current rushes through her nerves.
Blood runs down my face onto my shirt and drips onto the floor. It tastes metallic and salty as it passes over my lips. I ignore it. A battle wound. Satisfaction surges through me. But I can’t count my win as final yet. She is strong. She will recover quickly. I have to focus. I have to move fast.
Sweat soaks my shirt. My heart jackhammers. I can’t hear anything else. My nose is clogged, the nasal passages already swelling, forcing me to breathe through my mouth.
I zap her a second time, just to be safe. Her body seizes and topples. On the way to the floor, her head glances off the edge of the granite countertop. As she goes down, blood gushes from a gash on her temple. Between my nose and her head wound, blood slicks the floor. I fumble, trying to shove the stun gun into my pocket. My shoe slides. My kneecap rings on tile. I catch myself with a hand on the floor. Panic crawls over me. My lungs go tight. My field of vision narrows. Light-headedness swirls in my brain.
This is not how this was supposed to go. I should be in control. She is at my mercy now.
Don’t fuck this up. Breathe.
She’s down. I have a minute or two, at least, before she begins to regain muscle control.
After taking ten seconds to get my shit together, I yank the zip ties from my pocket, roll her on her side, and press my knee into her hip. With her pinned, I fasten her hands behind her back. I bind her ankles too. No doubt she can knee and kick as well as she can use her elbow.
Ironically, relief makes me almost as light-headed as the panic. But I have her now.
I sit back on my heels to catch my breath. My hands are shaking. My nose is full of blood, so my gasps sound wet and gurgling. It’s humiliating, definitely not the most masculine sound. This whole scene didn’t pan out the way I’d planned. I grab a clean dish towel from the drawer, hold it to my nose, and assess Farah.
Her cheek is pressed into the floor. With her hands and feet bound, she has no leverage. My knee and weight on her side keep her face mashed down. A trickle of bright blood runs into her eye and onto the floor.
“What the fuck, Rhys?” She doesn’t have full mobility of her jaw and mouth, so her words come out a bit garbled.
I lift the dish towel from my face. “You condescending bitch. Did you think you could just reject me, parade other men in front of me, then walk away?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares. I see her digesting the full ramifications of what just happened. Defiance fades from her eyes. Fear slides in.
Triumph blooms in my heart. “That’s right. I’m in control now. You’re about to learn all about respect and manners. You’re going to learn the hard way, and so is your new lover boy.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t have—”
Her words cut off abruptly as I zap her. “Shut up!”
She writhes, her body simultaneously stiff and quaking. A moan slips through her clenched teeth. It sounds almost feral. Before she dies, I’m going to take her to rock bottom. I’m going to strip away her humanity. She will become nothing.
I lean close, so she can feel my breath on her face. “Don’t lie to me. I saw you with him.”
Blood drips from the corner of her mouth. She must have bitten her tongue. When she opens her mouth, it stains her teeth.
I dab her face with the dish towel. A few strands of her hair are stuck in the blood. I brush them away. She’s still beautiful. I bet she’ll even be beautiful dead.
I smile. This is the first time I’ve been truly happy in a long time. “I started planning this weeks and weeks ago. Remember how you stalked Spencer? You were so focused that you didn’t see me following you.”
Her eyes open wider. A tear slips from her eye, mixes with the blood on her face, and falls to the tile. It spreads, a watery, pink circle of liquid.
That’s better. She’s humbled.
I stand, wet the dish towel under the faucet, and mop my face. My clothes are ruined. The bleeding from my nose has slowed to a drip. Maybe it’s not broken. I drop the dish towel on the floor and use it to clean the blood. But Farah’s head has left quite the puddle. I learned years ago, after a car accident, that head wounds bleed copiously. Her wound might not be too serious. She’s conscious and aware. The terror in her eyes is lucid.
I press a fresh towel to her head. I don’t want her to make a mess in the car. Her little Subaru isn’t big enough to transport Farah and a glass tank, so I can’t use her vehicle. I reach into her jacket pocket, retrieve her cell phone, and put it in my own pocket.
“Here’s where I’m supposed to say, ‘If you cooperate, you’ll be fine.’ But unlike you, I’m not going to lie. Here’s what’s really going to happen. I’m going to kill you tonight. But first, you’re going to watch your new boyfriend die.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Matt studied Rhys Blake’s place, a Cape Cod–style house on a quiet street a few blocks from the train station. The house was dark gray or blue. It was hard to tell in the dark. As was typical for homes in town, the lots were small and covered with mature trees and shrubs. Broad oaks lined the street, their thick branches winter-bare. Looking down the driveway that ran alongside the house, Matt could see a detached two-car garage at the back of the small lot.
Bree parked at the curb. “Windows are dark.”
“He could be asleep.”
“Let’s hope.” She popped the lock on her seat belt.
A patrol vehicle parked behind them. Bree had left Todd in charge of completing the search of Farah’s house.