He watched the blood on his fingers, his eyes narrowing to slits of murderous intent. He was formidable, half-dressed, a terrifying blend of raw power and bruised ego. He took a slow, menacing step. "You actually think that tiny thing can stop me?"
"I won’t stop you from hurting me," I countered, locking my gaze on his. "But if you come one step closer, I swear on my mother’s grave, I will cut something off you, and you will spend the rest of your life regretting it."
The sheer, venomous intensity of my threat gave him pause. He was used to cowering victims, not defiant executioners.
“You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, his tone shifting back to a forced calm, though the fury simmered beneath.
“Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing,” I countered, taking a ragged breath.
It was a desperate bluff, but it seemed to work. He didn't charge. He simply stood there, breathing heavily, his wounded ego warring with the potential pain of another strike.
I grabbed the oportunity and ran away. Reckless and exhausted, I reached the road outside the villa only to be blinded by headlights