Page 131 of Touch of Hate
That part of him is still inside. I can’t pretend it’s not. I’ve pretended all along, and it hasn’t helped anything.
That’s what I need to keep in mind as I begin to pick the lock. My hands are shaking too much at first to be effective, but the memory of what I’m carrying inside me and how much they need to be protected focuses my energy and steadies me. I can get through this. I have to get through this.
Slowly, I insert the first pin into the lock, turning the tumbler slightly before inserting the second tiny piece of metal. I ease it in, feeling around for the pins comprising the lock, concentrating hard on the feel of them as I go from one to the next, lifting them as I slide the metal along.
Am I doing this right?
I think I am, but I won’t be sure until I finish. It does seem like it’s working, but no matter how hard I try, this is not a silent job. The knob jiggles, and metal scrapes against metal. Panic rises up, bubbling over the surface.
I’m making too much noise. I know it.
Especially when I drop one of the pins to the floor. In the silent cabin, it’s as loud as if I’d struck a drum, but that could also be my overheated imagination running away with me.
Either way, I freeze up with my heart in my throat at the sound of movement from the other side of the door.
He moves fast, so fast there’s hardly time for me to get out of the way before he unlocks the door and shoves it open.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands, his blue eyes stormy, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a nasty snarl. “Trying to get away? Is that what this is? To think you promised him you would always stay.”
All I can do is stumble to my feet and cry out in a desperate plea for mercy, hoping to get through. “Ren, please, don’t do this.”
If anything, my plea makes things worse. With a growl, he lunges at me, arms extended, but somehow, I manage to duck past him and into the living room.
He catches me easily with a heavy arm wrapped around my waist. He throws me down onto the couch, all the air seeping out of my lungs.
“This is how you want to play it? I’ll be the cat, and you be the mouse? You know there’s no getting away from me.”
I roll onto my back, frantic, trying to sit up but held in place by his much larger body, caging me in. “Stop this,” I beg, my voice clogged with emotion. “This is me, Scarlet. I love you.”
What am I even doing? Trying to pull him back to me. He finds it hilarious, his bitter laughter ringing out over my breathless sobs.
I only need to get to the door. That’s it. I have a general idea of the direction of town, even if it is miles away. Once I get to the road, though, I might be able to flag down a passing vehicle. That’s my only hope. First, getting past him, which right now seems as likely as outrunning a bear.
“You’re the problem,” he whispers, his hate-filled eyes burning holes through me. I shrink back into the cushion. “You’ve always been the problem.”
There is so much hatred in him, so much rage, and when he looks at me, I understand one thing with crystal-clear certainty—he would kill me if he could.
Whatever is in him, whatever is in control now, wants me dead.
The man before me, the man who wiped my tears, gave me my first kiss, and protected me for years, is the complete opposite of Ren at this moment. All of Ren’s love, protectiveness, and devotion have been twisted into something that seems downright demonic in comparison.
“Listen to me. I know you’re still in there. I know you still love me.”
“Would you shut the fuck up? God, this stupid fucking bitch never stops talking and is always in the way. I told him. I fucking told him what happens when you get women involved in things, but did he want to listen, did he? No,” he barks, lunging almost like he wants to bite my face like a rabid dog. “No, he thought he knew better. Thought loving you would make him whole, would stop him from falling off the deep end. Would keep his humanity in check. He always thinks he knows best, but he doesn’t.”
He’s completely lost it. It’s only when I register the wetness on my cheeks that I realize I’m crying again. My breath comes in hitching sobs, every muscle of my body tense, prepared to flee. But I have to get past him first, don’t I?
“Shhh, it’s okay. We can talk this out.”
“What is there to talk about?” he screams, pressing me into the corner of the couch. My eyes dart around wildly, my survival instinct kicking in on the heels of a fresh wave of adrenaline. He wants to hurt me. He’s going to hurt me, that crazy light in his eyes and his empty, soulless smile speaking of unfathomable pain and destruction.
“Please,” I sob, gripped by panic and the growing certainty he wants me dead. “Please, it’s me. Remember us. Remember everything we have and what we’ve been through.”
“Who is we? We don’t have shit.”
“That isn’t true. We have so much. We always have. Please, don’t forget that.”
He cuts me off, a hand wrapped around my throat, a hand which tightens until pressure builds in my head, and even pulling in a sip of air is a struggle.