Toxic: A Dark Romance

“What are you doing here?” I ask, glancing around wildly, as if I’ll be able to pull the answers from the ether. It makes no difference. I know why he’s here. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t expecting to see him again.

As he pushes his way inside and closes the door behind him, I realize he’s changed clothes. He isn’t wearing the standard issue prison uniform anymore. I squint as he comes into the light, trying to make out what he’s wearing. Then it dawns. The pants are so familiar because I see them at work every day. They’re from an officer’s uniform. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he must have overpowered the one in the back of the ambulance and escaped somehow.

I swallow around the lump in my throat and ask the question that has knots forming in the pit of my stomach. “Did you . . . did you kill them?”

He raises a brow. After a pause, he says, “No, I didn’t kill them.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say his voice sounded almost tired, but that can’t be possible. The energy coming off him in waves has my pulse responding in kind. Adrenaline kicks up and ignites in my blood. As he advances, I take matching shuffling steps backward. With one eye on him, I look for a weapon, nearly seething. I’m sick and damn tired of being hunted in this house. Of being terrorized and bullied by men like him.

Instead of backing away, I charge in his direction. He isn’t expecting my sudden movement, and this time, my shove catches him off guard and knocks him into the wall. Pictures dislodge and rain down, crashing to the floor in a spectacular shower of broken glass. His hands come up to block as I attack with my fists, unleashing a whirlwind of pent-up frustration on any part of him I can reach.

My fury knows no bounds, and I slap, punch, and scratch every available inch of his skin. Unrecognizable sounds tear from my throat, and soon I’m panting from exertion. My nails rake down his cheek and score along his throat, breaking the skin. He curses and takes both of my wrists easily into one hand and pins me against the sofa with his hips.

“Why are you even here?” I scream at him. “I did what you wanted. I got you out. You win!”

His body goes still, and he presses as close to me as he can. My heart leaps into my throat, and my pulse trips over itself.

“What if I want you?” he asks quietly.

My lips part, and for once, I don’t have a retort. That is the last thing I ever expected for him to say.

When I manage to speak, it’s more like a croak. “You’re certifiable,” I say, and try to squirm away from him. “After all the shit you pulled, you come back for what? A booty call? Screw you.”

He ignores me and says, “Come with me.”

My brain simply short circuits. “What?”

The grip on my wrists loosens. “Come with me. Now. Let’s leave together.”

“You can’t be serious,” I exclaim. “You just killed a man! I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Dead serious,” he replies. “You can’t stay here, so leave with me. I can keep you safe.”

“Keep me safe? You’re on the run from the cops! I just helped you escape prison.” A laugh escapes me then, and I double over with it, my head going to his chest as the emotions bubble over. “I guess that means I’ll be on the run from the cops, too.”

He tips my chin up. “So run with me.”

I don’t get the chance to answer his question because Vic chooses that moment to walk in the front door. My heart drops to my feet, and my body turns to stone. Gracin doesn’t hesitate to shove me behind himself, guarding me against Vic.

This can’t be happening.

Vic’s eyes find us in the living room, he lets out a puff of breath, and his eyes go wide. The expression would be almost comical if the situation wasn’t so dire. His cheeks color with rage and a vein at the corner of his temple begins to throb as he takes a step forward . . . and runs right into Gracin’s fist.

If I thought he was capable of violence before, it’s nothing compared to the beating he unleashes on Vic. The sound of fists meeting flesh reminds me of all the times Vic did just the same thing to me. A voice inside my head tells me I should intervene. I should tell Gracin to stop, that we can just leave, anything to get him to quit, but I can’t make myself say the words. I derive a sick, twisted satisfaction from each pained sound, each connected hit. It’s the vindication I didn’t know I was looking for. Vic’s face is covered in blood, and his eye is already swelling, but Gracin keeps going.

“Fuckin’ piece of shit,” he says, grunting with the effort it takes to heave a bobbing Vic back to his feet. “How does it feel, motherfucker?”

“Fuck you,” Vic says, spitting blood and earning another punch. The resultant crunch causes him to squeal, and his head lolls back, blood spurting from his nose.

Gracin prepares to levy another hit when Vic lunges to the side and grabs a lamp from the side table. It isn’t a cheap one, either. So, when it crashes into the side of Gracin’s head, I call out, “No!” as he crumples to the ground by the coffee table.

I scramble to his side, feeling for a pulse and am swamped with relief when it flutters against my fingers.

I don’t have time to properly examine him before Vic stumbles to my side and pulls me to my feet with a fist wrapped in my hair. Instinctively, I pivot, gun in hand. I’m not blind to the fact that I didn’t pull the weapon I’d saved to protect myself against Gracin.

Vic barks out a laugh. “You think you’re gonna use that on me, girl?” His hand comes away covered with spit and blood as he wipes his face. “You don’t have the goddamn balls. Fuckin’ cunt.”

Gracin groans at my side as I square my feet, gun raised and trained on Vic’s imposing form. “Shut up and stay where you are,” I tell Vic. “One move, and I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in that big cocksucker of yours.”

I feel movement by my side and glance down swiftly to see Gracin wrap a battered hand around my ankle. Simply having him touch me calms me in a way nothing ever has before. I draw strength from the feel of his hand on me and look back at Vic.

“What are you gonna do? Shoot me?” He laughs, blood dribbling down his chin. “That’ll be the day.”

“Gracin,” I say to his prone form. “Can you get up?” His hand is cradling his head, and he lifts to a sitting position with a groan. “Can you walk?”

I want to help him, but I can’t chance taking my eyes off Vic.Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

Gracin heaves himself up to all fours and then to a crouch. “Yeah,” he says, his voice sounding like he’s speaking through gravel. “Yeah, I’m all right.”

Vic takes a step toward us, and I jerk the gun up. “Don’t,” I grit out.

“If you’re gonna shoot me, then just kill me,” Vic says. “Stop pussy-footing around.”

I ignore him and help Gracin to his feet with my free hand, which isn’t easy considering his size.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

“He’s fine, you’re fine, we’re all fuckin’ fine,” Vic says. “You gonna tell me what the fuck he’s doing in my house?”

“I’m leaving, Vic.” The relief at just saying the words, words I never thought I’d be able to speak, is intense and immediate. Gracin’s hand tightens around my own. “We’re going to go now, and you aren’t going to follow us.”

His nostrils flare. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says and takes a threatening step forward.

Gracin straightens behind me, not saying anything, but he doesn’t need to. His presence makes me feel safe for the first time since Vic started smacking me around. Instead of crumbling, my knees lock tight, and my wavering arm steadies.

I gesture with the gun. “Keep your hands up and step away from the door.”

Vic does neither. Though, I didn’t honestly expect him to listen to me in the first place. “You know,” he says, “I knew you were a slut to begin with. White trash won’t ever be anything but white trash.”

My finger pulls the trigger, but the shot goes wild, slamming into the wall. Drywall dust poofs out and covers Vic’s arm and the side of his face as he jumps to the side. I jolt backward and meet with the hard wall of Gracin’s chest.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking psycho,” Vic says when he manages to regain his voice, shaky though it is.

“You’re damn right. I’m the psycho with the gun. The one who can hurt you for a change. So, stop fucking talking and get the fuck out of my way.”

Vic gapes at me like he’s never seen me before. And he hasn’t. Not this version, anyway. The one who’s sick and tired of being his punching bag. At least he did what I told him to do. The shot scared him enough that he is well out of the way of the door now. I take advantage of his shock and begin inching that way. I don’t dare glance at Gracin as he starts to move, because I know what I’m going to do with him when we do get out of here.

If we do.

I aim the gun at Vic’s gut, and he holds up his hands. Gracin reaches the door first, and just as I’m starting to feel like I may make it through the night after all, Vic lunges for the gun.

I feel the recoil in my arms before my brain even registers what happened. It jars me all the way down to the bone, nearly causing my hand to go numb. I prepared myself for the first shot, but this one surprises me as much as it does Vic, who can only gasp for breath. The small hole in his chest expels blood, and he grunts, his hands trying in vain to stop the bleeding as he collapses to the floor.