“Bronwyn, I’m coming,” I whisper.
That’s the last thing I get to say.
A rough, calloused hand slams over my mouth. Another wrenches the scalpel from my grip. I scream “no!” into his palm when the blade clatters to the floor, my only chance of survival.
A muscular, veined arm hooks tight around my middle, yanking me into a chest as hard as stone. Against a cock just as hard.
And I smell bleach.
It’shim.
His fingers dig deep, bruising, claiming me. My body shivers, caged in by walls of muscle I can’t fight. Tears roll down my cheeks, soaking his palm.
Every hopeful thought, every fantasy that this could end well, snuffs out in an instant.
I can’t cry out. Can’t breathe. My eyes bulge, my pulse pounding at my ribs.
But it’s when something rough presses against my cheek that I really lose it.
He’s wearing a mask. The surface is a little stiff, probably made of old latex. It can’t be good. I just know it can’t. When the Colberts offered their help, they showed their faces. Now this person has a mask on. Why?Why?
“Mine,” he growls, danger oozing from his voice.
I thrash anyway, jerking left, right, desperate.
His grip doesn’t loosen.
“No, Skylar. Be good.” His voice is low in my ear. “Running will only get you killed, and you don’t want that, do you?”
9
KNOX
Her lips press against my palm. This small body of hers melts into my much bigger one.
She’s soft. Perfect.
Mine.
I wasn’t raised to want someone like Skylar. Gentle. Precious.
Then again, I wasn’t meant to want at all.
To murder, yes. To turn skin into leather, that too.
Breeding, to keep the town living and breathing? Absolutely.
But not this.
Not to ache for the little hitch of her breath. The red that climbs from her neck to her cheeks.
Not to desire these tears soaking my palm. Her humanity, her fragility, there’s none of that in Colbert.
Definitely not the freedom she represents. A life beyond these walls, away from this town, was always forbidden.
But I crave her. So fucking much.
This blonde angel. My furious, terrified trouble.
