“It’s all right,” I murmured to him, stroking his head. “I know you are—it’s all right. You can let go now. You’ll be all right. You’re not alone. I’m here.”
He wanted to say the words but couldn’t. He was sorry, for what it was worth.
Tears slipped out of his glazed-over eyes, onto his weathered skin, and absorbed into the fabric of the dress. Not knowing what else to say, I started to pray the Hail Mary, keeping my voice barely above a whisper, keeping my hand wrapped around his in a tight embrace.
I was on my second Hail Mary when the door came open, and the monster came back in. Burgess was still alive, hanging on by a thin thread, but Cesare only had eyes for me. It was as if he’d forgotten about the man he’d crushed and left on the floor to suffer to death.
This time instead of using my hair, he took me by the back of the dress, its neckline cutting into my throat, and drug me across the room, back to the bed.
His skin was ice cold, having gone outside with nothing on but his pants and boots. Nothing seemed able to touch him, though, not even extreme elements.
He hauled me up by the collar of the dress, choking and gasping on my own blood and saliva, and then flung me on the bed. He secured my hands to the bed frame again, leaving only my feet free. The broken rib, or ribs, were so tender that in this position my head spun around in delirious circles, the entire cabin tilting.
“You are slippery.” He fixed me with a penetrating glare. “We shall see if that pussy is as well.” He pushed the crisscrossed fabric to the side, exposing my breasts, and then lifted the dress, forcing my legs open.
He grinned at me when I snapped them shut, ready to hit him square in windpipe with my foot when he came close again, but the more I wriggled, the dizzier I became from the pain.
Dropping his pants, he made a low noise in his throat, watching me struggle, stroking himself. He positioned himself on the bed, and when I went to kick him, he grabbed hold of both of my ankles, pushing them aside as though they were made of glass.
The pressure was excruciating, and I could have sworn my bones were about to shatter.
I hadn’t screamed before, but at this, I started to.
He came in even closer, putting his hand over my mouth, grunting before he’d even begun. Even if I had to squirm from left to right, just to make it more frustrating for him, I would.
We fought this way for a few seconds, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I dimly registered whistling—it was a cheerful tune, not a care to be found in it.
If Cesare hadn’t hesitated for half of second, I wouldn’t have believed it to be real.
It was.
A second afforded me what I hadn’t noticed during the fight.
The blood in my veins surged so hotly and so viciously that steam could have blown out of my nose and ears. My entire body vibrated with my other half’s murderous rage. His blood was close, so very close to mine.
Empowered by the renewed verve rushing through me, I squirmed even more, fought even harder, until his hand came down on my neck, pressing down on my carotid, and the entire world faded to black.
Time ceased to move forward in an instant; in the next, I was blinking, the light from the door melting the darkness from my eyes.
A man stood in the doorway of the cabin, the light behind him making him seem almost unearthly.
Was it Burgess? Had his soul departed and then hesitated, tethered here by unfinished business?
No, no, the horrible wheezing and gurgling sounds were still coming from the fighting lump on the floor.
“Brando!” I shrieked. The cut on my lip split with the sudden opening of my mouth. The cold made the blood clot faster, and the wound had come together by a thin stitch of plasma. It gushed warm blood, making the metallic taste coating my tongue even stronger.
Brando’s face was covered in a ski mask. Only his eyes, nose, and mouth were visible. Snow clung to the dark fabric from the storm he must have trekked through. The breath blew out of him in a panting lion’s breath, his nostrils too, and his chest heaved with the frantic beating of his heart.
At his name, all of his attention swung toward the bed, as though he’d been searching for years, and in a moment, his entire world shrunk down to that second.
At first, the moments seemed to stretch, as though everyone moved in slow motion.
Cesare knelt over me, the weight of him too much to fight against, Brando’s knife in hand.
Lifting the weapon, both of his hands holding the handle, the blade was pointed down—he was going to impale me, sending it straight through my heart with as much force as he was capable of.
Time seemed to move forward with amazing speed after that.
