“If you take one step closer, I’ll cut you open.”
“Put the knife down, woman.”
Slashing the air with artless fervor she advanced, grazing the wing of his nose. The blackness of his eyes intensified.
He yanked a ghost-white handkerchief from his pocket and raised it to the wound.
“Damn. Give me the knife, Bea.” Blood soaked the cloth thoroughly.
Instinctively, she recoiled. He grabbed her thin wrist. The kitchen knife fell to the floor. It was no longer a struggle—she had capitulated. And as a gray silence enveloped them roundly, she braced for a face-numbing slap—which never came.