Page 52 of Little Ballerina
She made it to her feet but took only one step when a hand snapped around her ankle. Without thinking she kicked backward with her free foot and managed to get in a firm hit to the man’s face.
He yelped in surprise and pain but didn’t let her go.
Instead, he yanked on her ankle so hard she lost her balance and landed hard on her knees.
Angry now, the man flipped her roughly onto her back.
He held a knife poised above her.
Clara had taken enough self-defense lessons from her sister and her fiancé that her body continued to move on autopilot. She lifted a knee, connecting squarely with his groin.
The knife was already in motion and caught her in the stomach, but not enough to do any real damage.
Knowing she might not get another chance, this man wasn't going down without a fight, she opened her mouth and screamed as loudly as she could.
The man swore but released her and staggered toward her back door.
Less than a second after the back door slammed closed, her front door banged open.
“Clara?”
Jonathon. He was here.
“Clara! Nate, around back. Now. It’s him,” he yelled over his shoulder as he ran to her.
As he dropped to his knees at her side Clara sighed in relief. It was over. She wasn't dead. She’d fought him off.
* * * * *
12:33 P.M.
Blood.
As he looked at his fiancée lying on the floor of their home, all he saw was her clothes stained with blood.
Jonathon forced himself to function when he wanted to lose it completely.
First aid.
He needed to perform first aid.
Attempting to see the blood as isolated spots pointing him to injuries instead of the terrifying scene that it was, he zeroed in on Clara’s left arm and stomach. His coat was on the floor, and his sweater in his hand before his brain even processed what he was doing. His shirt came off next and he pressed it to her stomach.
At his touch Clara’s eyes opened, and she smiled at him then tried to sit up.
“Don’t move.” He held her down. “I’ve got to stop the bleeding.” His heart was hammering so hard in his chest he was sure she must be able to hear it, and he took a deliberately long, slow, calming breath. He didn’t want his panic to make Clara panic.
“Jonathon, I'm fine. Really.” She gently pushed away his hands and pulled up her top, revealing a small red line on her smooth white skin. “It’s not deep.”
She was right. Thankfully she was right. The wound wasn't more than a quarter of an inch deep. If he hadn’t been in a blind panic, he would have noticed that there wasn't enough blood on her stomach to indicate a life-threatening injury. Already she was turning her attention to her arm, wincing as she pulled the material away from her second wound.
“How bad is that one?” he asked, willing himself to at least inject a semblance of calm into his tone.
“Not too bad either,” she assured him.
“Here, hold this on your stomach. It’s not deep but it is still bleeding.” When she took hold of his shirt and kept it pressed to her wound he began to rip at the sleeve of her lilac sweater. When he had made the hole big enough to examine the wound, he saw it was a little deeper than the one to her stomach but also nothing particularly serious. “This one might need stitches, but it doesn’t look too bad.”
“Told you.” Clara grinned, a little shakily but it was a smile nonetheless and more than he could muster at the moment.