Chapter 22.
It connected with a soft, sickening thud. Mark's breath left him in a pained, high-pitched wheeze. All the pressure vanished as he curled in on himself, rolling off her onto the floor, clutching himself and moaning. Layla didn't wait. She scrambled to her feet, slipping on the torn fabric of her robe, and bolted for the open doorway. She hurdled past his writhing form and ran down the hall, through the wrecked living room, and out into the hallway. The sterile fluorescent lights hummed overhead, painting everything in a sickly greenish-white. The linoleum was cold under her bare feet. She ran for the elevator, stabbing the call button. Nothing. Too slow. She turned for the stairwell door just as a raw, wounded roar echoed from her apartment doorway. Mark stumbled out, his face a mask o
- Writer
