Bella stood behind the door in the pitch-darkness, a castiron skillet in her hands. The scratching sound she'd heard only a moment ago had stopped. Except for the pounding of her heart, now there was only silence.

Breath held, shivering in her thin cotton tank top and boxers, she waited.

The doorknob creaked, then turned.

Her hands tightened around the handle of the heavy frying pan; she sucked in a breath as the door slowly opened. When the dark shape stepped into the room, she raised the pan over her head.

"Bella?"

Miguel? Too late to stop her swing, she brought the pan down, though not as hard as she...