Faster, Imogen. Run fucking faster.
Except the light of the horizon comes spiraling down as a heavy weight slams into me from behind. I brace myself for impact. But they turn their body in one swift fluid motion, bracketing me in and taking the brunt of the fall for me.
I’m only allowed a second of reprieve before he twists his body once more and pins me against the ground. Both of my wrists are bound in his hands. His body straddles mine and I can feel his hips against my own.
Blowing the errant strands of hair from my face I finally see exactly which one of pa’s men caught me.
Even in the pale moonlight I can make out the deep uncharted waters of my assailant’s eyes. They almost seem unfathomable.
None of pa’s men have eyes as vapid, nor do they have eyes as beautifully rich in color.
They stare into mine intensely, almost too intensely. As if he’s trying to see through me.
Not wanting to be under his gaze nor his body for a second longer I drive my hips forward while simultaneously moving my arms in a snow angel movement.
This quick action of force propels my assailant forward and loosens his hold on my wrists but not completely. I then bridge my arms, breaking the hold and wrap my arms around his lower body.
The next move is crucial. And my assailant isn’t exactly a small man, he’s larger than the average male.
And maybe if this was a different life, if we were in a parallel universe, I would be admiring him.
But it’s not.
So with all the strength I have I roll right into my next move. Thrusting my hips with all might I then twist my body to switch our positions.
Keeping with momentum I pull my gun and point it directly at his head.
“Who are you?”
What I find most interesting and disturbing about my assailant? He’s as calm as the low tide beneath me. He’s staringdown the barrel of death and it doesn’t mean a damn thing to him. In fact he seems . . . bored.
“Does it matter who I am?” His voice is soft yet assertive. A contradiction that proves to make perfect sense to his character.
I press the butt of the gun on his forehead harder, enough to leave a mark, to gain a reaction from him. Yet I’m given nothing in return.
His sense of control, how at ease he is begins to make me uneasy.
“You’re not one of pa’s men. And yet you haven’t killed me. Either you’re a terrible assassin or I’m your first kill and you have cold feet.”
“I assure you, I’m no assassin.” In one swift maneuver my gun is swiped out of my hands. Before he casts it aside he empties the chamber. I stare dumbfounded and in utter shock.
With his hands on my hips and a quick twist our positions have switched once again. He’s back at the upper hand. But for some odd reason it’s like he always has been.
He pins me to the ground. This time with the majority of his weight on me. His nose grazes mine and I repress the shudder that wants to rack down my spine. “And you’re certainly not my first kill.”
The hair on my arms stands on its ends. A chill blankets me. “So, what number will that make me? Or have you lost count?”
Unnervingly he tilts his head to the side. “If I were to kill you, your number would be one hundred twenty-seven.” The number spoken so casually has my heart plummeting to my stomach. “Or was that a sarcastic remark?”
“What, you can’t tell?”
Surprisingly he answers honestly. “No. It’s something I’m working on.”
His candor takes me aback but not enough to not try and find myself an escape. Bucking him off me will not be successful. I’m out of a gun. I have no other weapon on me. Except . . .
Snapping my head forward I head butt him on the underside of his jaw. It’s the soft features of the face you want to aim for.
He rears his head back and so in turn alleviates the weight of his body on top of me.
