That woke her up.
Was this Hell, this heat? Had Isaiah finally—
A knock—knuckles on wood.
“All right in there?”
Confusion continued to crowd Abby’s vision, held her tongue, belabored her breath. She’d banged her head on the side of the tub, maybe.
Yes. No. No, I am not.
The squeak of hinges. Cool air. A slow turn of her head. Wet, water, coughing.
It was all too fast. Luc’s arms came around her, and she gave him her weight.Luc, Bringer of Light.
She nodded, let the nod become a face rub, noting the cold and the smell of the outside on his clothes before sinking into him with relief.
* * *
As Luc cradled the towel-wrapped woman against him and scanned the bathroom, the word for abattoir came back with crystal clarity—the one he could never seem to remember:slaughterhouse.
Every time he came or went from his property, he was forced to drive right by the neighbors’goddamned slaughterhouse. The place where they killed and skinned and bled their animals. Pig carcasses, sheep, and chickens. For food, he assumed, although images of sacrifice floated through his head. With Abby in his arms, he could think of nothing but sacrifice.
A dog barked in the distance. One of theirs, no doubt.
Hunting her still.
“I’m sorry.” Abby’s voice reverberated against his chest.
Luc sighed.Et merde. “It’s okay.” He sat on the toilet, soaking wet from her bathwater, wondering what the next move was.
Luc couldn’t guess where to begin. For the second time tonight he held a shivering, near-naked Abby in his arms, her eyes squeezed shut with pain.Call the fucking helicopter. We need the helicopter.
He sucked in a breath. Blood. So much of it. He swallowed, ignoring the earthy smells billowing up from the bath, and eyed her legs. A long gash ran from a gently curving shinbone, up to where it disappeared above her knee, seeping more blood.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were so badly hurt?”
“I didn’t…I didn’t realize,” she gasped. “I was running. Couldn’t feel it till I got up. And the bath…”
“Did they do this to you?”
“No, I did.”
He shook his head to clear it. “What?”
“Running. Climbing the fence. I cut myself.”
“You didn’t crawl through?”
“They closed the hole.”
Anger rose up, hard and hot.
“How are your feet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me see them,” he pushed out through tight lips.
