Deadly Beginnings by Jaycee Clark Page A

the handle.
    “Landon,” she tried, the copper of blood on her tongue.
    “You are mine!” he hissed, raising his hand again. She’d never get out the door. Never get out . . .
    She scanned the area.
    A lamp still sat on a side table beside the sofa. A book was still on the table.
    “Who was he?” he asked, reaching for her, but she darted around him.
    “Leave me alone!” she yelled. “Get out!”
    “No. You’re coming home with me and—”
    “I’m not going with you, Landon.” She shouldn’t be talking. Her face hurt, her eye throbbing in time with her pulse.
    “You need to tell me who you were with.” He stepped closer to her, blocking her way to the door.
    Her bedroom? She looked down the hallway. Boxes were stacked against her door. Had he packed up the whole apartment?
    “No one,” she answered, focusing back on him. “No one. I needed time to think, to see if you were right, if it was just cold feet.” She clasped her hands and eased backward even as he came forward. “We’re not right together, Landon. We’re just not.”
    “I heard his voice, who were you with?” he asked again, still coming at her.
    “No one,” she lied.
    He lunged one way and she went the other, but her foot caught and she tripped over a box. Kaitlyn cried out and reached out to steady herself. Her elbow hit the table with the lamp. The table overturned and the lamp crashed to the floor, the bright pottery breaking.
    He grabbed her, half pulled her up and hit her again. “Who. Was. He?”
    “No one.” She held her hand up, but he just knocked it away, dropping her.
    Her head hurt and she knew her eye would be black. Blood dripped off her chin and she realized her cheek was now bleeding as well.
    She never saw him move before his foot connected with her ribs, kicking the breath from her.
    She gasped, curling onto her side, trying to get away from him.
    Kaitlyn grabbed the open box on the floor even as he kicked her again. Pain burst along her side, stealing her breath. Her hand gripped the edge of the stupid box.
    Please, please let there be something in there . . .
    He jerked her to her back, standing over her, then raised his hand and hit her again.
    “You are mine!” This time she saw his fist coming but couldn’t get away. “Not a whore. Mine.”
    “Please,” she said. “Please stop.”
    He let her go but followed her down, his fingers gripping her shirt.
    Some part of her heard it rip. No. No. No.
    Not after Jock.
    Not with Landon.
    “Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    “You’re going to be sorry. You’ll never forget again,” he hissed as his mouth slammed down on hers.
    She jerked her head away, tried to hit him, but his hand gripped hers and slammed it down beside her head.
    “Mine. You are not quitting us,” he rasped, even as he leaned up and pulled her shirt more, his nails raking over her skin.
    With her left hand, she stretched, reaching. Something glinted from the box.
    He let go of her hand as his went to the waistband of her pants.
    She slung her free hand out, brushing the pottery. The broken pottery.
    Kaitlyn gripped it, feeling the bite of it on her palm. She raked it down his face.
    He yelled and reared back. Kaitlyn kicked and wiggled her way out from under him.
    The box.
    Her grandmother’s candleholders. Silver and heavy.
    “You bitch.” He crawled toward her.
    Kaitlyn whimpered and grabbed the heavy, ornate silver candlestick holder near the top and swung it out. The weighted bottom connected with the side of Landon’s head. For one moment he simply looked at her, his dark eyes empty and soulless.
    “You’ll pay . . .” His voice trailed off and he slumped down and fell.
    Kaitlyn jerked her feet back toward her.
    She hurried to her feet, gripping her side and hissing out a breath.
    Out. She had to get out. Her purse was by the door, her sweater.
    She wanted her things. She turned back. Her grandmother’s jewelry. The quilt she and Gram had made.
    Kaitlyn picked up her