Deal with my sexy brother inlaw

Chapter 4 The window

The smell hits me first. Whiskey. Strong and sharp, cutting through the air before Jasper even steps through the door.

I'm curled on the couch when he stumbles in. It's past midnight. He's been gone for hours.

The door slams hard enough to rattle the frame. I flinch.

"f*****g idiots," he mutters, kicking off his shoes. One hits the wall. "All of them. Useless."

I stay quiet. That's the rule when he's like this—drunk and angry. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't move too much. Don't exist loudly.

He looks at me, and something in his eyes makes my skin crawl. Not just anger. Something darker.

"You want to leave me, don't you?"

My stomach drops. "What?"

"Don't play dumb, Rose." He moves closer, swaying slightly. "I see it. The way you look at me. Like you're planning something."

Did he find the bag? I shoved it so far back in the closet, buried it under everything. But maybe—

"I'm not planning anything," I say quickly. Too quickly.

"Liar." The word comes out slurred. "You think you're smart. Think you can just walk away."

"Jasper, I'm not—"

His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my arm. Hard. Hard enough that I feel the bruise forming instantly.

"You're not leaving," he hisses, pulling me up from the couch. "You have nowhere to go. Remember?"

I've been here before. This dance where his anger needs an outlet and I'm the easiest target. Usually, I just take it. Wait for him to burn out, to collapse, to forget by morning.

But tonight something feels different. More dangerous.

He shoves me. I stumble backward, my shoulder hitting the wall hard.

"Jasper, please—"

"Please what?" He's right in front of me now, blocking any escape. "Please don't hurt you? Please let you go? Please stop reminding you how pathetic you are?"

His fist pulls back.

I see it coming. See the trajectory, the intent, the violence in his eyes.

And something inside me snaps.

Instead of freezing, instead of accepting it like I always do, my arm comes up. Blocks the hit. The impact sends pain shooting through my forearm but his fist doesn't connect with my face.

For one second, we both freeze. Shocked.

Then his expression twists into something ugly. Furious.

"You little b***h—"

I don't think. Just react. My nails rake across his cheek, drawing blood.

He roars, grabbing at me, but I'm already moving. Kicking. Clawing. Fighting back with everything I have.

"You think you can fight me?" He catches my wrist, twists it until I cry out. "You think you're strong enough?"

His other fist connects with my ribs. Pain explodes through my side. I can't breathe.

But I don't stop.

I knee him hard between the legs. He doubles over, cursing, and I shove past him. Make it three steps before he grabs my hair, yanking me backward.

I scream. Elbow him in the stomach. It's not elegant. Not strategic. Just desperate survival.

His fist catches my face. My head snaps to the side, metallic taste flooding my mouth. Blood.

He hits me again. My ribs. My stomach. Places that will hurt but won't show.

But I keep fighting. Keep kicking and scratching and refusing to go down easy.

"Stop fighting!" He slams me against the wall. My vision blurs. "Just stop!"

I taste blood. Feel it running from my nose, my split lip. Everything hurts.

But I see an opening. He's drunk, unsteady. When he pulls back for another hit, I duck under his arm and run.

The bathroom. I make it inside, slam the door, flip the lock just as his body crashes against it.

"Open this door!" The wood shudders under his fists. "Open it right now, Rose!"

I back away, pressing against the far wall. My whole body is shaking. Blood drips onto the tile floor.

"You're making this worse!" Pound, pound, pound. "When I get in there, you're going to regret this!"

The threats continue. His voice rising, breaking, screaming things that make my blood run cold.

Then silence.

I wait, barely breathing. Is it a trick? Is he waiting for me to open the door?

Minutes pass. Five. Ten. Twenty.

My legs give out. I slide down the wall, sitting in the same spot where I bled after losing the baby. The irony isn't lost on me.

An hour crawls by. Maybe more. I've lost track of time.

Finally, I press my ear against the door. Listen.

Snoring. Deep and rhythmic.

Slowly, carefully, I unlock the door. Peek out.

Jasper's sprawled on the couch, passed out. Empty whiskey bottle on the floor beside him.

The clock on the wall reads 2:17 AM.

I move like a ghost. Silent. Terrified every sound will wake him.

The duffel bag is exactly where I left it, buried in the closet. I pull it out, hands shaking so badly I nearly drop it.

My face throbs. I can feel it swelling, one eye already half-closed. My ribs scream with every breath.

But I'm moving. Finally moving.

The front door is too risky. He's right there on the couch. One sound and he'll wake up.

The bathroom window. It's small, but I'm desperate.

I climb onto the toilet, push the window open. The night air hits my face, cool and promising.

The drop isn't far. Maybe six feet to the grass below.

I shove the duffel bag through first, hear it hit the ground with a soft thud.

Jasper stirs on the couch. I freeze.

He mutters something in his sleep, rolls over.

I don't wait. Can't wait.

I pull myself through the window. It's tight, the frame scraping against my bruised ribs, but I force my way through.

For one terrifying moment, I'm stuck. Half in, half out. Vulnerable.

Then gravity takes over. I fall, landing hard on the grass beside my bag. Pain shoots through my ankle but I don't care.

I'm out.

I grab the bag and run.