Sing You Home by Ava Hunter

Sal stirs in bed, opening her eyes to stare out the window.

The room’s cast in a golden glow. The early afternoon’s faded to sundown. The soft rustle of sweetgrass can be faintly heard in the distance. And by her side, Luke. A half-smile graces his face.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey,” he says softly.

As if moving as one, Sal angles her body slightly while Luke reaches out to pull her tightly into his arms. Melting into him, she trails a finger down his muscled chest. He catches her hand and kisses the diamond band on her finger.

Then Sal slips out of bed, aware of Luke’s appreciative eyes on her. She tosses on a silk tank top and a pair of cotton shorts.

Luke, leans up on his elbow, a wolfish grin on his face.

Sal smiles at the look she knows so well. “You look hungry.”

“Starved. For you,” he says smoothly.

He makes a grab for her, trying to wrap an arm around her waist to tug her back to bed, but Sal playfully evades his reach. She tosses him a look as she shimmies across the room, knowing full well what she’s doing to him.

“Well, I, for one, am hungry.” She arcs a brow. “For real food, Luke. Nourishment, remember that?”

His eyes gleam. “Can’t say it rings a bell.”

Sal laughs breathlessly. “Stay here, country boy. I’ll go wrangle us up some food.”

“Just bring yourself back,” he says, stretching lazily in the sheets. A smile curves her lips at the sight of her tan, hot-as-hell husband. “That’s all I need.”

Smiling, Sal pads softly downstairs to the kitchen. She shakes her head seeing Luke’s broken guitar. Damn idiot.

Ravenous, Sal opens the fridge. She’s barely eaten anything since Tootsie’s. She couldn’t think of anything but Luke.

And now, now she can’t believe last night ever happened. Sal closes her eyes briefly, thankful for every lucky second chance she’s gotten in this life.

Her eyes scouring the contents of the fridge, Sal decides on a simple meal of wine, rotisserie chicken and cheese.

A floorboard creaks in the foyer.

A smile curls her lips.

Luke couldn’t wait.

Sal turns, shutting the fridge, a raunchy remark on her lips, when she gasps.

The bottle of wine slips from her grasp. It hits the floor, shatters. Glass shrapnel cuts her ankles, her calves, but she barely feels a thing. All she can do is stare at the horror in front of her.

Roy.

He came back. To their house. To get her.

He stands in the center of the kitchen, his massive frame silhouetted by the glow of the setting sun. In his hand, he holds a knife.

Sal sucks in a breath. Cold fear creeps over her bones as she meets Roy’s beady eyes.

Wrath radiates from his pores. His fists, fists she knows all too well, open and close, open and close.

She wants to scream but she stays quiet. She has to be smart. She won’t let Luke be hurt; she’ll die first. Instead, her gaze scours the kitchen for a weapon, her mind instantly lighting on the shotgun Luke has stored away in the closet. If she can just get to that . . .

“What are you doing here?” She almost gags on the words.

“Jenny, my Jenny,” Roy says. “It’s been so long.”

Fury tears through her. This is her house, her life, and Roy is still trying to take it from her.

Goddamn him.

“Oh, Jenny. You left me. And my Jennys don’t leave. Only I make my Jennys leave. Only I let you go.”

“You’re a monster,” Sal shoots back. Her heart flutters in her chest, damn near ready to stop. But she’s not. She pulls her hands to fists. “And I’m not your goddamn Jenny.”

She swings, hard enough to connect with his jaw. It’s not much, but it knocks Roy off-balance.

It gives her a minute. Barely.

Sal darts for the hallway. For the shotgun.

He’s on her fast.

Before Sal can shout for help, warn Luke, Roy rushes up behind her. He wraps one arm around her midsection, trapping her to him, and sticks the knife to her throat. “Precious Jenny, you just never learn, do you?”

Sal freezes, her breath hitching in her chest. Her stomach contracts as every muscle in her body aches to be free. To fight. But she barely dares to move, the tip of the knife so close to her jugular that one slip could end her.

Roy laughs—a terrible and cold sound that churns her stomach. He begins to pull her back into the kitchen, her bare feet dragging the floor. “After everything I’ve done for you, nursing you back to health, keeping you safe and protected, this is how you repay me?” Roy snarls. “I had rules, Jenny, and you broke them. I have to teach you a lesson.”

Sal looks past him, toward the doorway, the stairs, where any second Luke’ll be down to see why she hasn’t come back to him yet.

God, no, please, no—

She has to act fast. Do something, anything.

“Mother always says if someone won’t let you love them, you keep them. And if you can’t keep them, you kill them, Jenny.” His breath slops hot against her ear and Sal shudders. “It’s the only way they’ll feel your love.”

An idea screams at her.

One that tells her to meet madness with madness.

“Do it, then,” Sal says quietly, matching Roy’s unruffled voice with her own. “Show me how much you love me, Roy.”

Surprised by her words, Roy blinks, the knife bobbing in his hand. For a long second, it pulls back from her throat, and Sal sees her chance.

Craning her neck to look up at him, she meets his burning stare. “Well? What’re you waiting for? You love me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Roy says, licking his lips. “Yes.” His hand trembles, the knife rearing back to take aim, and that’s when Sal attacks. She wrenches her body roughly from his and drives her elbow down hard into his stomach.

The knife clatters to the floor.

Roy lets out a roar, betrayal burning bright in his dark eyes.

Sal screams at the top of her lungs and lunges for the hallway, but she’s too late. Roy wraps a hand in her hair and jerks roughly. Her head snaps back, her brain whiplashing in her skull.

Before she can regain her bearings, he shoves her against the wall, holding her in place by pressing his beefy body against her.

Then Roy’s monstrous hand covers her mouth, her nose.

Panic grips Sal. She writhes, jerking under his grip to be free. To breathe.

Her hands grasp at Roy’s, struggling to pull them away, and failing.

With greasy fingers, he roughly caresses her face, her hair. His hot breath singes her cheek. “No more chances, Jenny. No more.”

Both hands move to her throat. And they squeeze.

Sal arches, a gasp wrenching from her lungs as his grip intensifies.

Oh God, she can’t get air. She’ll die here in her kitchen, and Luke . . . oh God, Luke—

Stars burst in her vision, and her ears ring. The world blurs in front of her, a blackening of its edges, even as Sal fights to be strong, fights to live, despite her body begging her to let go. To give in to that final dark wave.

Roy lifts her, dragging her up the wall with both hands. She feels the slipping of her feet from the floor, feels her arms hanging slack at her sides, feels her eyes crossing. . .

“You kept running. You kept running, Jenny. From me. From your husband. What kind of wife are you?”

Not yours. Not your wife, Sal thinks right before her mind gives out. Never.

As Sal sinks into unconsciousness, the last thing she sees is Roy’s hands.

Around her throat.