Cut Too Deep(68)

It took her a moment to remember that he’d come scouting upstairs, so must have clocked onto which bedroom was Ryker’s. She didn’t have the energy or desire to answer, so she just started down the hallway toward Ryker’s bedroom.

She felt sick at the thought of what would happen once they’d made it to the room.

Garrett kicked open the bedroom door and nodded toward the occasional chair positioned in the corner. “Over there.”

Her muscles trembled from fatigue, her back and shoulders aching. Her headache had returned, thumping through her temples with a steady beat. Despite her pain, she increased her hold on Ryker, squeezing him tight around his waist and trying to give him a little shake to help bring him round. She didn’t know why she thought that would help, considering how he’d been jerked and jolted as they’d hoisted him up the stairs, but she had to try.

They dropped Ryker backward into the chair, so he sat, slumped and unresponsive.

Come on, she willed him. Wake up!

From the corner of her eye, she noted the exact way Garrett held the knife. If he showed any moment of weakness, or distraction, she would go for the weapon and stick him with it.

“Well this isn’t quite what I had in mind when we were dragging him up here,” said Garrett, staring at Ryker in something close to boredom. “But I guess I’d better tie him up just in case he wakes and decides to play the hero.”

“He’s injured,” Jenna said hurriedly. “He’s not going to do you any harm. He can’t even open his eyes. If you want to do this, let’s just get on with it.”

“Oh, you’re desperate for me now, huh, Jenna? You want to remember what it’s like to have a real man.”

The thought made her want to vomit, but she needed to get Garrett away from Ryker. She lifted her t-shirt to expose the breast he’d bared by ripping her bra. “Look at me, Garrett. Is this the best you can do? You’re making me think you can’t finish what you started. Did all those men in jail make you no good for women anymore?”

His face took on that customary blaze of rage. His nostrils flared, eyes widened, face burning. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her heart tripped in her chest, her eyes flicking between the shiny blade in Garrett’s hand and the face of the man she loved in the chair right behind him. Please wake up, Ryker, she willed again. But it didn’t look like that was going to happen. She couldn’t rely on someone else to save her. She needed to save herself.

Jenna took a step away from Garrett as he approached her, blade held out. The backs of her knees bumped into the bed and her heels hit something hard which rolled away and then rolled back again. She glanced down briefly to see the baseball bat Ryker had used to chase Garrett from the house the previous night. He must have not bothered to put it back in the closet—or else instinctively had kept it under the bed, but still within reach, just in case Garrett came back.

Which he had.

Quickly, she looked away from the bat, not wanting Garrett to notice the item, and kept her eyes locked on the knife in his hand. Could she wrestle it off him? She didn’t want to risk getting herself stabbed, but she had to do something.

“Get on the bed, Jenna,” he snarled.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Do as I say, or I’ll put this knife against your throat, and take you like that.”

She held up her hands. “Okay, okay.” Her voice trembled.

Could she reach down and grab the bat?

She got onto the bed, her back against the headboard. Garrett climbed on as well, facing her, his back to Ryker. He still held the knife in one hand, and yanked at his belt buckle with the other. He managed to get the belt undone one-handed, but then fumbled with the button of his jeans. He glanced away from her just long enough to look down at what he was doing.

Jenna took her opportunity. With a scream of fury, she threw herself at the arm holding the knife. Garrett glanced up and reacted by pulling his arm back, but he wasn’t quick enough. Both of Jenna’s hands closed around his fingers and she put her whole body weight into the movement so she pulled him down onto his side, his hand and the knife pressed against the mattress.

She cried out, “Let go, you piece of shit!”

She wished they were on the floor, so she could have lifted his hand again and smashed his knuckles down on something hard in order for him to let go, but the mattress was soft and yielding beneath them. She tried to pull at his fingers, to loosen them around the handle, but his grip was strong.

Then his hand was in her hair, knotting his fingers through her dark locks and pulling tight. White hot pain bloomed through her scalp, making her eyes water, as he yanked her head backward, exposing her throat to the ceiling. He yanked again, harder this time, and she knew he would have thick strands of hair around his fingers, probably together with a little of her skin, when he eventually let go. She had no choice but to let go of his hand and the knife. Automatically, her hands went to her head, trying to protect her hair and lessen the pain shooting through her scalp.