Chapter Twenty-Nine
Later that evening, Hunter parked his car in Emma’s driveway. The day had been successful, but it wasn’t over yet. There were things he needed to say to Emma, and he wasn’t going to wait until tomorrow. He had waited long enough, and he knew now, more than ever, what he truly wanted.
She yawned as they walked toward the house. “I say we feed Buddy, then jump into bed and sleep for the next forty-eight hours.”
He settled an arm around her waist and breathed in the honeysuckle and vanilla scent of her hair as they approached the front porch. “Sounds like a solid plan, but you’re missing a very important step.”
“What step?”
“The one that goes after ‘jumping in bed’ and before ‘sleep.’”
Emma grinned and began to comment, but the porch light flickered a warning.
The hair on the back of Hunter’s neck stood on end. Something was wrong.
Emma gave a choked gasp. “The window.”
The narrow glass window that ran parallel to the front door was smashed. A surge of adrenaline shot through him and he stepped in front of her.
“Wait here,” he commanded.
Emma shot him an incredulous look. “No freaking way.”
Of course she wouldn’t wait. This was Emma he was dealing with.
She ignored his scowl and set Buddy in the grass to roam the yard, where he’d be safe.
“At least let me go first,” he said.
Emma looked like she was going to protest, but—thank God for small mercies—she stepped aside and let him lead. A crash came from the kitchen, and when they reached the porch, the door swung silently open for them.
“Thanks, house,” Hunter whispered. So, yeah. He talked to houses now. What of it? They crept toward the kitchen, then stopped in the doorway and stared.
Rodney Winters was rifling through the cupboards, flinging dishes behind him and cursing as they crashed to the floor. He was stupid drunk; that much was clear. The scent of unwashed male, whiskey, and cigarettes permeated the air.
Hunter drew his phone and dailed 911, reflexively stepping in front of Emma to keep her safe.
One of the kitchen drawers flew open, clipping Rodney’s hip. He turned and ripped the drawer out, tossing it across the tiled floor. “Damned haunted house,” he muttered, then yelled, “Where’s the money?”
He yanked another drawer out and flung it across the tiles. The curtains in the kitchen window rustled and doors slammed throughout the house.
“Rodney, stop!” Emma pushed her way past Hunter.
Adrenaline spiked and Hunter reached for her, dropping the phone before he could answer the operator. He didn’t want Emma anywhere near the man. Over the years, Hunter had seen his fair share of people who had drunk too much and gone off the deep end. In this state, Rodney was dangerous.
Emma wiggled out of Hunter’s grasp as Rodney turned bloodshot eyes on them. His face contorted into a sneer, then darkened into something sharp and menacing. “Where’s the money, Emma? There’s nothing in the tin and I know you have some. You always have a stash.” His gaze darted around, jerking from her to Hunter and back again.
Hunter studied Rodney, noting the twitching limbs, the dilated eyes. He had to be on something stronger than just alcohol.
“I see you’ve brought your friend home with you,” Rodney sneered. “I had her first, asshole. Back when she used to be sweet. Isn’t that right, Angel? Tell him how good you used to be for me.”
Hunter felt his vision go dark around the edges. He took a step closer, hands clenched into fists.
“Shut up, Rodney,” Emma said.
“Where’s the money?” Rodney spat. He lurched forward, grabbing Emma roughly by the arms, shaking her.
She cried out.
A white-hot fury sliced through Hunter. He launched himself at Rodney, backing him against the kitchen cabinets. “Don’t touch her,” he said flatly. “Ever.”
Rodney shoved at him, but Hunter didn’t budge. He knew he had the upper hand, but he couldn’t afford to let his guard down. Rodney was a weaker man, but drugs made a person unpredictable. Hunter wrestled against Rodney’s flailing arms, pinning him to the counter.
With a frantic twist, Rodney whipped his arm out, catching Hunter on the side of the head with a plate.
A sharp pain seared across the side of Hunter’s head. He reeled backward as shattered porcelain rained over the kitchen floor.
“No!” Emma cried.
Rodney laughed, dropping the broken dish he had used as a weapon.
Hunter caught himself against the edge of the kitchen island as blood spilled from the gash on his head, filling his eyes.
Rodney yanked something from an upended drawer. The butcher knife flashed sharp and silver in his hand, then he launched himself at Hunter.
Hunter twisted sideways, but a hot, excruciating pain spiked through the side of his rib cage as Rodney shoved forward, slamming Hunter back against the countertop.
Emma screamed.
Hunter blindly reached for something to use as a weapon. Anything. A small glass dome with a single cupcake on it. It was the only thing within reach. He grappled, knocking the lid to the floor in a shower of broken glass. His hand made contact with the platter, and he hurled it at Rodney with all the strength he had left.
The glass platter hit Rodney’s face with a solid crack.
Rodney roared and dropped the knife. He grabbed his nose, blood spurting between his fingers. “You broke my nose,” he bellowed in a hoarse voice that hitched on a gurgle. “I’ll kill you for that.”
Hunter kicked the knife across the tiles, just as the room tilted sideways and he slumped onto the floor. He was vaguely aware of Emma throwing herself over him. He wanted to shield her, to protect her, but his limbs were too heavy and he couldn’t get up.
“Don’t try to move,” Emma cried.
Through slitted eyes, Hunter watched Rodney wiping bits of frosting and cake from his face and mouth.
“This thing tastes like shit,” Rodney spat. “No wonder your business is going under.”
“Get out of my house.” Emma slowly stood, her voice shaking with the fury of a thousand storms. A swirling wind blew in through the open window and Hunter thought he heard whispers joining with the sound of Emma’s voice. “Leave and never return,” she said. “In this, my will be done.”
The wind grew louder and more frenzied until it seemed to spin around the kitchen like a vortex. Broken bits of dishes scattered on the floor and Hunter could feel the force of it as it swept through the room.
The sound of police cars pierced through the night outside.
Rodney didn’t try to run. He stayed frozen in place, licking at the bits of frosting and cake clinging to his mouth. He had a confused, stunned look on his face.
Hunter’s vision began to blur and everything grew colder. He blinked, focusing on Emma’s face above him. She was crying. He lifted one hand and tried to touch her hair.
“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. His eyelids felt heavy. He wanted to tell her so many things, but he couldn’t focus.
Police officers poured into the kitchen. Someone was reading Rodney his rights. The last thing Hunter saw was Emma’s face. She was leaning over him saying something over and over. He wanted to reply, but the room grew dark around the edges and then there was silence.