I'm bleeding.
My ears ring and my vision blurs as I notice her towering over me, pan in hand. She looks down at my lying form, a beautiful, sick smile spreading on her lips.
"How's your omelet, darling?"
That's when I realize there's cooked eggs all over the floor, and that the crazy woman hit me with a searing-hot pan she just used to make my breakfast.
I try to talk, but I'm still too dizzy. Taking a deep breath, I can smell the eggs on the floor next to me. I relish the sense of pride overwhelming me. Fuck, I'm so proud of her for still fighting back. When I can finally look straight, I take in her determined eyes. I'm between her legs, each foot by my hips. She's standing like the super heroine of a comic book.
Super-pan woman.
Shit, I think I'm concussed.
"You look so beautiful like this," I rasp.
Her smile drops. "I'm leaving, Nate," she snarls.
