My Honeymoon Stranger's Trap - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
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Vincent Lombardi switched gears with unsettling enthusiasm, his manic energy making it clear he planned to camp out all night. Before we could protest, he'd already planted himself on our couch and produced a deck of cards from his pocket—the bastard came prepared.
My husband and I exchanged wary glances. Fine. We'd play along. The cops would be here any minute...
As I leaned against the cold leather armrest, the lingering chill from my shower hit me. I sneezed violently—too loud, too sudden. All eyes snapped to me.
Vincent's gaze crawled over my skin like spiders. "Something wrong, Mrs. Sullivan?" His voice dripped with fake concern. "Catching a cold?"
Ice water flooded my veins. He'd noticed something. I dug my nails into my palm, forcing a thin smile. "Just allergies."
But my mind was racing. Why wasn't Tiffany reacting to Vincent staring at me like that? No jealousy. No curiosity. Nothing. Were they even together? Or was this whole couple act part of his twisted game?
The realization hit like a sucker punch. My fingers twitched toward my coat pocket where I kept my knife. Where were those damn cops?
Then—my phone exploded with vibrations on the coffee table. The caller ID made my blood turn to slush: POLICE DEPARTMENT.
I lunged. Vincent was faster.
His hawk-eyes locked onto the screen, widening with dawning comprehension. Before I could blink, he'd answered and slapped it on speaker. A dispatcher's voice boomed through the room:
"Mrs. Sullivan, units are two minutes out. What's the intruder's status? Are you secure?"
The silence that followed could've choked a bull. I stopped breathing. Vincent's glare could've flayed me alive.
"Intruder?" he repeated through clenched teeth, face twisting like a demon mask. "So you did figure me out."
My husband moved like lightning, shoving me behind him as their glares clashed like drawn swords. "Vincent," he said, voice colder than January, "after all this time, you still haven't learned?"
The mask shattered. Vincent's laughter crawled up my spine—the sound of hatred left to ferment too long. "Learned?" He smashed his fist on the table hard enough to crack the wood. "You try surviving five years in that hellhole! Treated worse than a rabid dog! Then preach to me about learning!"
Madness sparked in his eyes as he loomed over us. "Every second of that," he hissed, "I owe to you two."
The first punch came faster than a rattlesnake strike. My husband barely dodged, taking a brutal shot to the shoulder. I saw him bite back instinct—no retaliation, just defense.
"You made your own choices," my husband ground out.
Vincent's neck veins bulged as he kicked the table. "That bastard ruined me first! Got me expelled! Was I supposed to take that lying down?"
Reasoning with him was like arguing with a hurricane. My fingers closed around the pocket knife in my coat, waiting for my moment.
My husband kept his voice steady. "You rebuilt your life. Is torching it for revenge really worth it?"
With a roar, Vincent grabbed his collar. "I didn't suffer five years to walk away now!"
They crashed together like freight trains, fists flying in a whirlwind of violence. Tiffany shrieked, scrambling backward like a startled rabbit.
Knuckles white around the knife, I watched my husband take hit after hit, praying for my shot. Any second now...
My husband and I exchanged wary glances. Fine. We'd play along. The cops would be here any minute...
As I leaned against the cold leather armrest, the lingering chill from my shower hit me. I sneezed violently—too loud, too sudden. All eyes snapped to me.
Vincent's gaze crawled over my skin like spiders. "Something wrong, Mrs. Sullivan?" His voice dripped with fake concern. "Catching a cold?"
Ice water flooded my veins. He'd noticed something. I dug my nails into my palm, forcing a thin smile. "Just allergies."
But my mind was racing. Why wasn't Tiffany reacting to Vincent staring at me like that? No jealousy. No curiosity. Nothing. Were they even together? Or was this whole couple act part of his twisted game?
The realization hit like a sucker punch. My fingers twitched toward my coat pocket where I kept my knife. Where were those damn cops?
Then—my phone exploded with vibrations on the coffee table. The caller ID made my blood turn to slush: POLICE DEPARTMENT.
I lunged. Vincent was faster.
His hawk-eyes locked onto the screen, widening with dawning comprehension. Before I could blink, he'd answered and slapped it on speaker. A dispatcher's voice boomed through the room:
"Mrs. Sullivan, units are two minutes out. What's the intruder's status? Are you secure?"
The silence that followed could've choked a bull. I stopped breathing. Vincent's glare could've flayed me alive.
"Intruder?" he repeated through clenched teeth, face twisting like a demon mask. "So you did figure me out."
My husband moved like lightning, shoving me behind him as their glares clashed like drawn swords. "Vincent," he said, voice colder than January, "after all this time, you still haven't learned?"
The mask shattered. Vincent's laughter crawled up my spine—the sound of hatred left to ferment too long. "Learned?" He smashed his fist on the table hard enough to crack the wood. "You try surviving five years in that hellhole! Treated worse than a rabid dog! Then preach to me about learning!"
Madness sparked in his eyes as he loomed over us. "Every second of that," he hissed, "I owe to you two."
The first punch came faster than a rattlesnake strike. My husband barely dodged, taking a brutal shot to the shoulder. I saw him bite back instinct—no retaliation, just defense.
"You made your own choices," my husband ground out.
Vincent's neck veins bulged as he kicked the table. "That bastard ruined me first! Got me expelled! Was I supposed to take that lying down?"
Reasoning with him was like arguing with a hurricane. My fingers closed around the pocket knife in my coat, waiting for my moment.
My husband kept his voice steady. "You rebuilt your life. Is torching it for revenge really worth it?"
With a roar, Vincent grabbed his collar. "I didn't suffer five years to walk away now!"
They crashed together like freight trains, fists flying in a whirlwind of violence. Tiffany shrieked, scrambling backward like a startled rabbit.
Knuckles white around the knife, I watched my husband take hit after hit, praying for my shot. Any second now...
End of My Honeymoon Stranger's Trap Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to My Honeymoon Stranger's Trap book page.