Johnny’s mouth twisted in a sneer as he took another step into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. I slowly stood from my crouch, setting my bag on the counter so I could easily search for what I’d tossed in there just before he’d opened the door.
His gaze darted from my bag to my face to the window behind me—the window I’d opened after the shower to let the steam out—then back to my face. And I knew . . . I knew as his eyes filled with rage he was assuming the worst.
“Wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing in here?” he asked as he twisted the lock and slowly started toward me.
My body begged to respond, to match his steps with ones of my own, but I stood at the counter and held his stare, searching for the knife Kieran had given me and trained me to use so many years ago.
“I asked you a question, bitch,” he said through gritted teeth.
“It’s not—” I’d just grasped the knife when he grabbed my throat and barreled me back into the wall, my shoulder smashing into the edge of the towel rack and forcing a cry from me.
His other hand slammed down onto my mouth to mute the cry, and for a few moments he didn’t move or speak. He finally released my throat to press his forearm against my chest and his hip to my stomach, pinning me to the wall and preventing any obvious attempt to fight back . . .
All the while I was struggling to reposition the knife I’d almost dropped so I could flip out the blade as pain pulsed from my shoulder to fingertips.
“I’ll ask you again, but this time you’re gonna answer. Got it?” His voice was hushed but no less menacing. “What are you doing in here?”
I clenched my jaw against the pain when he removed the hand from my mouth, forcing out, “It’s not what you think.”
“Isn’t it?” His eyebrows pulled low over his eyes, and like last night, it looked like he was taking his hatred and forcing it on me. “Knew there was something from the first second I saw you. Knew you were trouble. Knew Dare was a fucking idiot for not listening to me. And now here you are . . . in a place you shouldn’t be, near my girl.” His free hand slowly moved down, his lip curling as he tightened his fingers around my wrist until I no longer had control of my hand. “I’ll snap your fucking neck for even thinking about hurting her. Drop the knife.”
Someone yelled just before there was a loud smack against the bathroom door. “Johnny!”
Johnny tensed against me and looked over his shoulder. The hand clutching my wrist loosened and his chest heaved as he blew out a ragged breath.
One of the girls yelled as she banged against the door, and soon the other’s voice joined in.
I watched Johnny carefully as they yelled for him to open the door, and saw the war that raged within him. The way he responded to Einstein’s distress, as if hearing her caused him pain . . . the way his hatred and suspicions overcame that pain and concern every few seconds.
I waited for his hesitation and finally flicked the blade out.
Johnny growled as he swung his frustrated glare back on me, his forearm shoving harder against my chest. “Who the hell—?” His pained roar filled the bathroom when I jammed the knife into the wrist where his hand now barely circled mine.
He tore his arm away, but before I could swipe at him again, he rammed his shoulder into my chest. “You fucking bitch!”
The air flew from my lungs as the towel rack dug into my back, but I somehow managed to tighten my grip on the knife when Johnny grabbed my hand and bashed it against the wall over and over again.
Everything ached as I struggled to suck in air to cry out for help.
Blood was steadily dripping down his arm and transferring onto my own as he attempted to pry my fingers loose one at a time, his movements sloppy as his hand trembled against mine.
“Knew not to trust you,” he rasped out again as he stepped back.
My legs threatened to give out without him keeping me against the wall. But just as soon as my knees weakened, Johnny’s shoulder collided with my chest once . . . twice.
A hint of a breath wheezed from my lungs.
My vision darkened.
I no longer heard the voices outside . . . I no longer heard anything.
But Johnny was there—unfurling to his full height as his hand moved to my throat, the other gripping mine to once again drive it against the wall.
My mouth opened on a soundless cry.
There was so much pain. I wanted to close my eyes, but knew I needed to stay awake. Knew I needed to hold on to the knife.
I needed to breathe . . . and I couldn’t.
All I remembered was the feel of his fingers tightening around my throat and the crazed look in his eyes before he was suddenly gone, and I was collapsing to the floor.
An eternity made up of seconds passed as I struggled to make my lungs work.
Someone reached for me. I swung. My hand moving across the floor sluggishly.
And then eyes . . . those eyes.
Dark, knowing eyes.
Truth or dare.
“Firefly.”