This was different.
A single creak.
Low.Heavy.Wrong.
It sounded like weight shifting where it shouldn’t be.Like someone moving very slowly, very carefully, hoping not to be noticed.
A footstep.
And every nerve in my body went razor-tight.
I froze with a shirt in my hands, my pulse slamming against my ribs, hard and frantic, as if trying to warn me or break free.
I held my breath and listened.
The house was too small for tricks of the mind.There was nowhere for sound to wander, nowhere for a stranger to hide without being practically on top of me.
If someone was here… they weren’t far.They were close.Terrifyingly, breathtakingly close.
I swallowed once, silently, and lowered the shirt.
My fingers slid to the back of my waistband, brushing the hilt of the knife tucked beneath the waistband of my jeans.
There was another sound.It was subtle, wrong.A soft, metallic click—the sound of a door being eased shut.
Behind me.
I spun so fast the room tilted.
A man filled the doorway.He was big and broad, built like a wall with a menacing scowl on his face.His eyes locked on me—flat, certain, already victorious.Behind him, two more shapes shifted into view, shadows stacking on shadows.
Three of them.
A cold drop of dread sank into my gut, but my muscles moved on instinct, faster than fear.
The first man lunged.
I snatched the lamp from the bedside table and swung hard.
The impact was vicious.Glass exploded, and his shout cracked through the room as he clutched his bleeding face.
Behind him, one of the others snarled, “Grab her!”
I didn’t give them the satisfaction.
I shoved the injured man into the doorway and bolted toward the kitchen, but a hand clamped around my arm.I twisted brutally, driving my elbow backward into ribs.
I heard a grunt as air was knocked from lungs.The man’s grip faltered just enough.
I tore free.
Then fingers knotted in my hair and yanked.
White-hot pain ripped across my scalp.A sound burst out of me—raw, instinctive, more rage than fear.
I spun with the momentum, knife already in my hand, silver flashing.
The man holding me jerked back, but he was too slow.My weapon sliced across his knuckles, skin splitting open like wet paper.Blood spilled fast, running down his wrist in thick, hot streaks.