The Edge of the World

Chapter Thirty

He was going to kill her this time, she decided, staring into his hard eyes. He was going to end her as he'd threatened a thousand times before and she was helpless to stop it. Shadows and voices forgotten, she lost herself in the dreadful knowledge.

Her head reeled from the beating, and she tasted blood dripping from her ever-seeping lips, but she refused to cry or beg. Many times, she'd succumbed to the fear, but not this time. She sat with her back in the corner her legs too weak to hold her body up as he pressed the barrel of his state-issued weapon against her throbbing temple. Neither of them looked away as he chambered the bullet with the quick draw of the slide, the sound thunderous as it fueled her restrained terror. The only consolation she had in any of this was he looked like pure shit. She'd held her own this time, but, despite the battle, it seemed she lost the war.

Anthony grinned, blood trickling from his nose to smear across his white teeth. He would gloat, because of course he would. It's how he rolled. He held the gun to her head while glancing around the wrecked house with raised brows. Everything breakable lay shattered, and no wall was left unmarred by their wicked fight to what would be the death.

"Damn, baby! You know how to give a man a good time, don't you," he asked, his voice booming through the stillness of the room, smashing the silence like she assumed her ribs were. Fuck, it hurt to breathe.

"Well, I hate when shit gets boring," she said with more snark than she felt.

He laughed bitterly, his attention returning to her then shook his head in mock sadness.

"What did you think would happen, girl? Did you think you'd win? Even if you killed me, you wouldn't have gotten away with it. I am the police. With that said, I'll get away with killing you for the same reason. You were always hot, honey, but you were never real smart."

Yeah, she mused in silent agreement. He was right in that, at least. Her marriage to him proved it.

His expression darkened, his bloody lips thinning as he raised up onto his knees. The movement sent awareness throughout her entire being. He was going to do it. This was it, God, this was her final moment. With a snarl, he wrapped his fingers around her throat, holding her head against the wall while pressing the cold steel to her temple harder, tighter, so he would get it right the first time.

"I never wanted this, Tatum. I never did, but you pushed me. This is all you."

Her gaze didn't waiver despite the growing horror at knowing this was the end. She wouldn't flinch. He would have to stare into her eyes as he pulled the trigger. She would grant him no respite. She held her breath, waiting for death, but Anthony paused, sniffing the air, and realization dawned on her. Oh, but the beauty of it all lifted the fear, and she smiled, her eyes filling with dark mirth.

"What the hell is that smell," he asked, uncertainty spoiling his smug expression.

"Pull the trigger and find out."

His slap felt like nothing compared to everything else he'd done to her and did little to rain on her mental parade. Dead or alive, she would have the last laugh. He gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his stare.

"What is it? Fucking answer, me!"

"It's gas, genius. I turned on everything before you got home. The furnace, water heater, the stove, every fucking burner is leaking and has been this entire time. How long has it been, Tony? Huh? One hour? Two? I bet it's so thick in here that if you flip on a light switch, it'll take out half the block. Imagine what a gun explosion will do. So do it. Pull it, you son of a bitch, and we'll snuff out together."