dirty and disheveled, and despite the distance, Isleen smelled his sweat and bad intentions.
He scrambled up out of the streambed and sprinted after the woman.
Watch out. Behind you. The muscles in her throat strained to make noise, to scream, to warn the woman, but a stronger counterforce wouldnât permit a peep.
The man sprang at the woman, launching himself as if he were a jungle cat taking down prey. They fell. A short, sharp snap of pain and fear slipped from the woman, then ceased when her body hit the ground. He landed on top of her. Neither of them moved for a few ticks of the clock, then the man lifted himself and shifted until he sat on her back.
The woman yelled nonsensical sounds of anger and terror. Her arms beat at the ground; her hands rucked up handfuls of dead summer grass. Her feet kicked, but her toes only succeeded in slapping the ground. Her hips bucked up and thrashed, trying to fling the man off her back like an angry bull, but he was too heavy.
Isleen stopped next to them. Immobilized. Paralyzed. Helpless. Forced to watch the man withdraw a knife from a sheath on his waist. The blade was subtly curved, wickedly curved, and smeared with rust. Only it wasnât rust; it was dried blood. Dear God, who else had he killed?
She pushed against the confines of her body, strained, tensed, tried to react, tried to catch that hand holding the knife, but it was already too late. He punched the blade down into the womanâs back. The unholy shriek of pain from the woman branded itself on Isleenâs brain, burning deep into her memory where sheâd never forget it.
He raised the knife, then punched it into the womanâs backâagain, again, againâin a series of thrusts so rapid Isleen couldnât count. The sound of steel to bone snapped loudly against the peaceful backdrop of birdsong. Slurping, wet sounds now accompanied each slam of blade to flesh.
The woman stopped screaming.
* * *
Xander jerked awake with a full-body shudder. Damn. The incessant noise of the hospital flooded his ears. Beeping and buzzing machines. Hundreds of conversations. The rattle and hum of the air conditioner. Christ. It hadnât seemed this loud until now. The sounds had been there, but somehow heâd forced them into the background. Now they were in the foreground, demanding his attention, depleting his hold on sanity, driving him closer and closer to a visit from the Bastard.
A streak of light snuck around the edges of the closed blinds, slashing across Isleenâs empty hospital bed.
Empty.
Xanderâs heart went bucking bronco inside his chest. Where was she? He kicked to his feet and ran from the room. The hallway was empty except for Isleen in her hospital smock flashing her too-bony spine and creamy white ass to the world.
He darted back in the room, grabbed the blanket off the bed, and then raced after her, his boots clomping as loud as a Clydesdaleâs hooves against the tiled floor.
He didnât mean for it to happen, but his vision locked on the pale mounds of her ass, on the demarcation of each rib, on the expanse of all that ivory skin. He shouldnât be staring; he shouldnât be getting a monster rocket in his pants; and he shouldnât be thinking thoughts ofâ
What. Was. Wrong. With. Him. Especially when he could see the pale-pink outlines of so many scars that it hurt just looking at them.
She was only four days out of that torture trailer, three days free from deathâs grasp, and two days off the IVs and liquid food, and here he was, thinking about the ways heâd like to prime her pump. When had he become a goddamned pervert?
He caught up with her. âYouâre probably cold.â The words gushed out of his mouth, sounding as awkward as the front of his jeans felt. He draped the blanket over her shoulders, arranged and rearranged it until her backside was covered to her knees. The whole time, she never stopped moving, never
He scrambled up out of the streambed and sprinted after the woman.
Watch out. Behind you. The muscles in her throat strained to make noise, to scream, to warn the woman, but a stronger counterforce wouldnât permit a peep.
The man sprang at the woman, launching himself as if he were a jungle cat taking down prey. They fell. A short, sharp snap of pain and fear slipped from the woman, then ceased when her body hit the ground. He landed on top of her. Neither of them moved for a few ticks of the clock, then the man lifted himself and shifted until he sat on her back.
The woman yelled nonsensical sounds of anger and terror. Her arms beat at the ground; her hands rucked up handfuls of dead summer grass. Her feet kicked, but her toes only succeeded in slapping the ground. Her hips bucked up and thrashed, trying to fling the man off her back like an angry bull, but he was too heavy.
Isleen stopped next to them. Immobilized. Paralyzed. Helpless. Forced to watch the man withdraw a knife from a sheath on his waist. The blade was subtly curved, wickedly curved, and smeared with rust. Only it wasnât rust; it was dried blood. Dear God, who else had he killed?
She pushed against the confines of her body, strained, tensed, tried to react, tried to catch that hand holding the knife, but it was already too late. He punched the blade down into the womanâs back. The unholy shriek of pain from the woman branded itself on Isleenâs brain, burning deep into her memory where sheâd never forget it.
He raised the knife, then punched it into the womanâs backâagain, again, againâin a series of thrusts so rapid Isleen couldnât count. The sound of steel to bone snapped loudly against the peaceful backdrop of birdsong. Slurping, wet sounds now accompanied each slam of blade to flesh.
The woman stopped screaming.
* * *
Xander jerked awake with a full-body shudder. Damn. The incessant noise of the hospital flooded his ears. Beeping and buzzing machines. Hundreds of conversations. The rattle and hum of the air conditioner. Christ. It hadnât seemed this loud until now. The sounds had been there, but somehow heâd forced them into the background. Now they were in the foreground, demanding his attention, depleting his hold on sanity, driving him closer and closer to a visit from the Bastard.
A streak of light snuck around the edges of the closed blinds, slashing across Isleenâs empty hospital bed.
Empty.
Xanderâs heart went bucking bronco inside his chest. Where was she? He kicked to his feet and ran from the room. The hallway was empty except for Isleen in her hospital smock flashing her too-bony spine and creamy white ass to the world.
He darted back in the room, grabbed the blanket off the bed, and then raced after her, his boots clomping as loud as a Clydesdaleâs hooves against the tiled floor.
He didnât mean for it to happen, but his vision locked on the pale mounds of her ass, on the demarcation of each rib, on the expanse of all that ivory skin. He shouldnât be staring; he shouldnât be getting a monster rocket in his pants; and he shouldnât be thinking thoughts ofâ
What. Was. Wrong. With. Him. Especially when he could see the pale-pink outlines of so many scars that it hurt just looking at them.
She was only four days out of that torture trailer, three days free from deathâs grasp, and two days off the IVs and liquid food, and here he was, thinking about the ways heâd like to prime her pump. When had he become a goddamned pervert?
He caught up with her. âYouâre probably cold.â The words gushed out of his mouth, sounding as awkward as the front of his jeans felt. He draped the blanket over her shoulders, arranged and rearranged it until her backside was covered to her knees. The whole time, she never stopped moving, never
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