A shout to our right makes the lass jump, letting out a little yelp as I grab her upper arm. “Get moving.”
“Shouldn’t- shouldn’t you pull that knife out of your leg?”
“And leave blood all over the scene? Not feckin’ likely,” I growl. The gardener’s cottage is the closest structure, and since I’ve taken it over as my own, I know there are first aid supplies there. The old man who tended the perfect boxwood shrubs and rose garden is long gone. All the support staff fled the island or were driven out when we took over. Temporary workers come in for the games after signing an NDA thicker than the Bible.
The little cottage looks ridiculously out of place, a tidy building with blue shutters. Even long neglected, flowers are still growing in the boxes under the windows. Despite the quaint exterior, there’s a biometric panel that requires my handprint to open it.
“Go in.”
My fox glances away, no doubt trying to find an escape route. I respect her stubbornness, but I haul her inside, slamming the door and listening to be sure the locks engage. She stands in the middle of the tiny main room, staring at the knife sticking out of my thigh.
“There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom,” I say, leaning against the table. “Go get it.” She’s still glaring at me like she wants to tear a hole in my throat with her teeth, but she obeys me, fetching the kit and hurrying back.
“How do we do this?” she asks, chewing her lip nervously.
I could easily do this on my own, but hearing her say “we” gives me a jolt of satisfaction. “I’m going to give you the gauze. Fold it into a thick pad, and when I pull the knife out, you slap the gauze on the wound.”
She’s pale, her face dirty and scraped, yet still a bonnie thing. I can see her eyes closer now, a warm blue with little specksof gold ringing the pupil. “Yeah,” she says, sucking in a deep breath. “Okay.”
Bracing myself, I yank the knife out and a river of blood pours from the wound. She’s quick, pushing the gauze against the cut.
“Good girl,” I say, teeth gritted. “Hold it there.”
“You’re going to need stitches,” she says. “I think I saw bone when you pulled the knife out.”
Stifling a groan, I know she’s right. “Cut my jeans off that leg. I need to look at it.” The sight of blood isn’t bothering her that much because she’s eyeing the razor-sharp scissors like they’re a potential weapon. “Stop fucking around!” I snap. Cutting the denim free, she pulls the cloth down my leg so I can get a better look. She’s not nearly as afraid of me as she should be because she glares at me as she presses the gauze to my thigh. “I’ll hold the bandage,” I say. “Find the suture kit.”
After the chase, the beating, the stabbing, and the murder,thisis the thing that sets her off. “I don’t- I can’t even sew on a button,” she stammers, “this is-”
“I’ll do it,” I say sharply. It’s not like it’s the first time.
Chapter Five
In which Luna’s experience bears a striking resemblance to Little Red Riding Hood’s.
Luna…
This cottage is straight out of a fairy tale.
There’s a fire blazing in the little hearth, and the fairy tale part is extremely vivid because this monster materialized from the forest, murdered his fellow mutation of humanity, and dragged me here.
He keeps his wolf mask on as he sutures the gash on his thigh and limps over to the kitchen sink to wash the blood off his arms and leg. I dry heaved a couple of times, holding the sliced pieces of skin together so he could sew the gash, but sorry. It’s my first encounter with a stab wound.
“Do you sleep with that thing on, too?”
He looks up, seeing his reflection in the window over the sink and cocks his head, as if noticing for the first time that he’s still wearing the wolf mask. Pulling it off, he runs a hand through his hair with a slight groan of relief.
Now I almost wish he’d put it back on.
The son of a bitch isbeautiful.
His eyes are a deep green, not like the creepy grey-green forest he chased me through, but the color of grass, new leaves on thetree in spring, fringed with thick, dark lashes that are completely wasted on a man. High cheekbones, and a sensual mouth in the dark of his short beard.
I don’t want to find him attractive. He’s a killer. I doubt Red Leather Mask was his first victim. He barely reacted when he snapped his neck.
A vision of that whip-wielding monster dead on the forest floor assaults me. My memory has always been excellent, but this is something I wish I wouldn’t remember in such explicit detail.
While I’m paralyzed by the thoughts of Red Leather Mask's neck being crushed, my captor is casually stripping down.
