"Fuck," I sob under my breath.

I turn around onto my back and try to kick him off of me, but he traps my legs under his knees and pins my arms to my side.

"Let's have a little fun before I kill you," he sneers.

Bile rises in my throat as he reaches for his belt buckle. I refuse to let him take this any further. I'd rather he just killed me.

I turn my head to the side and bite down on his arm as hard as I can. He cries out again and pulls his arm away, but I can still taste blood in my mouth. I push him off me and onto the floor.

He swings at me, hard, and grips a fistful of my hair, pulling my neck painfully to the side, but I swing back as hard as I can. I throw blow after blow into the side of his head while simultaneously slamming it into the floor.

Oliver had taught me some hand to hand combat techniques, but I'm relying purely on force at this point, any thought of strategy far from my mind. His eyes start to droop a little and his limbs become gangly and uncoordinated as I stand up and make my way down the stairs.

I know this isn't over. He's had a lot more experience in killing people than I have, and his moral compass doesn't exactly point due north. He won't hesitate to kill me this time, and he won't waste any more time trying to toy with me before he does. I have to catch him off guard and kill him quickly.

The obvious choice would be to run out the front door and try to make it to the warehouse, but my keys are upstairs and I no longer have a phone to call for help. The next choice would be to go into Oliver's office and grab the gun he keeps in his desk drawer, but the chances of his office being locked are high and the kitchen is closer anyways.

I rummage clumsily through the drawers, my hands shaking wildly, and pull out a large boning knife. It's not ideal, but it'll have to work.

I make my way around the corner and back up the stairs as quietly as I can, cursing silently to myself when one of the stairs squeaks. He's not where he was laying minutes ago.

My grip on the handle of the knife becomes slick with sweat as my heart continues to pump wildly in my chest. There are four doors up here on the second floor and he could be behind any one of them.

I conceal the knife further into my sweater sleeve as I slowly open the first door- the guest bathroom. When I'm confident he isn't hiding behind the shower curtain, I clear the other rooms as quickly as possible until our bedroom is the only one left.

"Motherfucker," I sigh angrily when I realize we're right back where we started.

I know Oliver has several other guns stashed away in there and I can only hope this guy doesn't find any of them. The door is open slightly, so I try to peek in, but I can't see anything.

I hate how quiet everything is. The low hum of the air conditioning seems deafening and I just wish he'd make some sort of noise. Any noise.

Did he really manage to navigate his way back here without the floorboards cracking or the door hinge squeaking, or am I the only unlucky one that can't seem to move in silence? Even my heartbeat seems desperate to announce my exact location to him.

I put my free hand flat against the door and push it an inch at a time, hyper away of everything around me. Thankfully, I hear a faint click behind the door and duck immediately, narrowly missing the bullet that just blew a hole through the wood.

So much for no guns.

He bursts through the splintered door, firing shots aimlessly down the hallway. I pull the boning knife out and stab him in the calf, causing him to fall to the ground as I rip the gun from his hands.

His head is bleeding heavily from me slamming it repeatedly earlier. It's a wonder he was even able to get up at all, but of course he's operating on the same fight or flight instinct I am. Too bad for him, I refuse to lose this fight.

I toss the gun to the side when I realize it's empty and pull the knife out of his leg.

He screams in agony, but I feel no sympathy. Even as his eyes look up at me- full of pleading and desperation as he's finally learned that he lost- I feel nothing but anger.

Anger for what he's done to me today. For what he would have done if he had the chance. For what he and Jasper planned to do to Oliver. For all the innocent women and children they've abused.

He was the definition of pure evil. An absolute fucking monster, and monsters don't deserve my sympathy.

I slide the knife up under his ribcage more times than I can count. I keep going long after the light leaves his eyes and nothing but a blank, haunted stare looks back at me. If there's even a slight chance he can still feel it, I want him to feel this pain.

His phone lights up in his pocket, pulling me out of this fit of rage. I pull it out with blood soaked fingers and see a text from Oliver asking for an update on me.

I let out a bitter laugh that morphs into a strangled sob before composing myself. I use his thumb to unlock the phone and dial Oliver's number.

He answers on the second ring.

"You better be doing something really fucking important for it to keep you from answering my last two texts, Smith. I told you to give me hourly updates, no exceptions. Is she okay?" He growls into the phone.

I take a deep breath.

"I don't think this new guy is going to work out."