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1141 Words
Letting out a shuddering breath, I get to my feet and stuff my mask into the front pocket of the hoodie. I grab my belongings and lock the door of my dressing room as I head out. Like Mathew promised, there’s a large takeout bag on the table in the kitchen. I open it and sniff its contents before smiling gleefully. Sure, Mathew and I have a transactional relationship—I fix his matches for him, and he makes a ton of money off of me—but he’s always looking out for me, as well.
After taking out one of the meat rolls, I stuff the remaining food inside my backpack and zip it up. I have just taken a bite of the roll and am about to turn around and leave when I hear loud, thudding footsteps. Alarm fills me. Nobody is supposed to be back here when I’m on my way out; it’s the only way to hide my identity. Mathew always makes sure the back entrance is clear when it’s time for me to leave.
“Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of a bitch.”
I recognize the voice as belonging to Mountain Man, my opponent tonight. Annoyed, I curse silently under my breath. Who let that i***t back here? He’s coming this way, and he clearly knows I’m here.
Shoving the meat roll inside my pocket, I grab my mask and pull it over my head before I turn it around…just in time to be grabbed by the front of my sweatshirt and shoved against the refrigerator.
The man before me has the kind of face only a mother could love. He is bald, with ugly scars and a nose that was never set properly after being broken one too many times. He’s not wearing his mask, but it doesn’t matter; I already know the true identity of Mountain Man.
Roger Clark.
I’ve seen him around. He’s staying at the motel across the street from the Dancing Bear, the bar where I work. The man likes his drink. He also likes to harass the female staff. Even with his mask on, I always knew who he was. A man that size isn’t easily confused with any other.
There is a large bruise on his forehead, and I feel a surge of satisfaction that I’m the one who put it there.
“Did you really think you could humiliate me and get away with it?” Roger spits. “Do you know who I am? It’s about time someone put a b***h like you in her place.”
I hear the fabric of my hoodie tear as he uses both hands, and fury fills me. Without hesitation, I knee him in the balls. However, he doesn’t so much as flinch, and I belatedly realize that my knee came into contact with something solid.
A grotesque smile forms upon his face. “Do you think you’re the first woman to try that trick? All you women are the same. You think if you go for a man’s junk, you can incapacitate him. Unfortunately for you, I’m always a step ahead. I wear a metal cup to stop bitches like you from attempting to go for a man’s weakness.”
He wears a what?
I stare at him.
If he has a metal cup covering his d**k, how does he…?
My mind is wandering in all the wrong directions when I should be focusing on the problem before me. This asshole has torn my hoodie, and his hands are now going for my shirt.
I shove him using all my strength, and he slams into the table.
“You know what?” Rage contorts his expression. “I think I want to see your face when I f**k some sense into you.”
He charges toward me, his hand reaching for my mask. His words hit me, his intention clear now.
He intends to r**e me.
A different emotion takes hold of me. My body moves on its own, and I elbow him in the neck, causing him to stumble backward. Fear is a bitter taste in my mouth.
He thinks he can violate me? I’m going to kill him.
Roger is far from done. He rushes at me again, excitement glittering in his eyes. “Yes! I love it when they fight back! I’m going to teach you a lesson or two. Women belong in the kitchen. They are below men. Inferior. You think just because you managed to land a punch, it makes you better than me? By the time I’m done with you, you’ll know who your master is. I’ll tear out your f*****g insides!”
My body goes cold at his words. The image I’m seeing is flipping between this huge man charging at me and seven teenage boys surrounding me. It is the same sick fear that consumed me when I was sixteen. But not the same helplessness.
I’m not a little girl anymore. I know how to defend myself.
My wolf may be defective—a broken, twisted creature that has never seen the light of day—but I can feel its rage within me. I wait for Roger’s fingers to graze the edge of my mask, and as soon as they do, I grab them in my fist and twist them backward. His scream is high-pitched, and I use his distracted state of mind to kick him in the stomach. Next, my fist lands against his nose, breaking it in a shower of blood. He falls back against the table one more time, clutching his broken nose with his good hand and cradling the hand with his injured fingers against his chest.
“You f*****g freak! I’m gonna kill you! I was about to go easy on you, but now I’m going to rip out your—”
I don’t give him the time to finish his threat. My foot locks against his ankle and yanks. As he goes down, I grab a knife from the block on the kitchen counter. My body is on autopilot.
He’s a threat.
That’s all I can think of.
Get rid of him. He’s a danger to me.
Fear fills those beady eyes of his, and he manages to whack the knife out of my hand.
Fool.
I bare my claws, ready to strip his face off.
But before I can do any such damage, a strong hand grabs my wrist, stopping its descent. I look over my shoulder, my other hand raised to attack the person who has stopped me. But he fends off my attack easily, and I barely manage to land a good scratch on his wrist.
“Enough.”
The low, raspy voice and the scent of his blood start to dissipate the red haze clouding my vision.
- Writer
