Jace shuddered, and his claws dug into his wrists as he clenched his fists. "You should lock yourself in the bathroom," he said, slowly and evenly. "Right now."
"A lock won't stop you —"
"It'll slow me down enough to get it together. Fucking now!" he growled, and his eyes were glowing again.
I dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door shut right as his body thudded against it hard enough to rattle the hardware and knock a few bits of chipped paint off the wall beside it.
I pressed myself back against the opposite wall, breathing hard.
Silence.
No, not quite silence. I could hear him breathing too, deep rasping pants that could've been used as a movie sound effect for the part where the ingénue was hiding in a closet with the serial killer heavy-breathing right outside.
Those scenes could go on for what felt like hours, with the tension ratcheting up until everyone, from the director on down to the moviegoer, wanted to scream.
