She screamed, levering her torso off the floor with hands curled into talons.
He didn’t hit her with the barrel this time, simply struck her in the solar plexus, the blow knocking her back to the floor.
He was on her, this time not taking any time to enjoy the unique features of the woman beneath him. He even laid his gun down behind his right knee, impossible for her to reach.
Shay grunted in pain as he tore at her clothing, and turned her head. Not everything was out of reach.
He didn’t notice her arm snake out, or the soft click. He had her jeans to her knees but her boots prevented him from tugging them further. He tried to flip her over, and she knew what he was planning to do. This time, she fought back, keeping his attention just long enough.
A lovely blue flame had leaped up by the hearth slate. It ran quickly along the top of the tequila spill line that ran under the chair and into the braided floor rug. The rug caught first. He didn’t notice. He only knew she was losing the fight.
In the end Shay found herself crying out, “Fire!”
“What the fuck?”
“Fire! Get off me!” Shay pushed at him with all her might. The flames were only inches from her face.
His eyes went wide as he scrambled off her. He reached for his gun even as the undercarriage of the chair began to smoke. He backed off and got to his feet. Seemingly confused by the fire, he aimed his pistol at the carpet first and then at the chair, as if the flames would surrender to his firepower.
Shay didn’t wait to see who would win. She rolled away from him and onto her feet. Even as she grabbed her jeans to pull them up over her hips, she headed for the door.
“You bitch!”
She ran. She didn’t look back. She didn’t even cower from the shot she knew was coming. Her choice.
The report was louder than she expected. She stumbled at the threshold as every muscle in her body contracted for impact. The fiery burn of the bullet still surprised her.
From the room behind her, her phone began playing Katy Perry’s “Wide Awake.” It was like music wafting in from another world, a world where there were boyfriends, and dinners to be cooked, and a fire to cozy up next to.
And then she was through the door.
Her world was filled with November darkness, the chill thrill of a damp north wind whipping in from the lake, and the insistent throb of a burning wound.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Go right!
She didn’t spare a second to wonder why her brain was directing her there. Right would take her into the woods. Harder to find. Harder to track. Yet Bogart would know to look for her.
She heard it, perhaps because she had been praying so hard for it, the sounds of a truck. Was it James’s truck turning off the main road? She stopped running at the edge of the woods. Maybe if she could just double back to the road, meet him— She looked back toward the cabin that stood in the way.
The metallic gun barrel shone under the radiance of the NightWatcher light as her assailant paused in the doorway of the cabin. He was coughing and cursing and then he was off the porch at a dead run. She waited to be certain he wasn’t coming her way. She decided he was headed for the campground parking lot on the other side of this strip of woods where she supposed he had parked his vehicle. But maybe not. Maybe he was still looking for her. And if she risked going back into the open too soon …
Survival impulse took over the decision. She turned away and took off at a run, the moist ground sucking at her boot heels as she fled into the underbrush. But within seconds she came nearly to a halt. She ached in every part of her body. It was impossible to catalogue all the pain. She put a hand to her head and it came away with a wet smear. Must be blood. Her legs were rubbery and her stomach burned with a hollow fire. Her arm—no. Couldn’t think about the arm.
The autumn-stripped trees kept the woods from the pitch-black darkness of a summer-night canopy. Overhead the sky glowed faintly with the Milky Way. If she didn’t find shelter her stalker might find her before James. She had to move!
She was familiar with this section of wilderness, and during the day she would not have been afraid to cross it alone. But in the dark, with the wind whipping her hair into her face, she might as well have been in another country. Nothing was familiar, or comforting, or tinged with the presence of another human being.
She thought she heard the moment a vehicle turned off the road into the hundred yards of gravel path that led to her door. The man behind her would have heard it, too. She moved on.
Tired, running on adrenaline and fear, she was acting purely on instinct. And instinct told every hunted animal to go to ground, to hide.
She fretted because her boots made swishing sounds as she passed through the leaves that were knee-high in places. If there was anyone to listen. Bogart!