I kick out uselessly, unable to get the leverage I need to shove Carter off me.
My heel connects with the kerosene lamp, and glass shatters. I barely register the sound—it’s overpowered by my enraged shriek.
The yellow glow from the lamp flickers, casting eerie shadows around Carter. His leering face sharpens to something demonic. I jerk against his restraining hands, oblivious to the ache of his ruthless grip on my wrists.
He holds me down with horrific ease, leaving one groping hand free to paw at my chest.
I snap my head forward, cracking my skull against his.
“Fuck!” He snarls a curse, but he doesn’t let me go.
He slaps me again, and the firelit world swirls around me. Something warm and wet drips onto my face: his blood. It streams from his broken nose. The injury only seems to make him stronger, fueling him with maddened fury.
The gun.I have to get to the gun.
The horseshoe lies discarded on the ground, inches from my face. If I manage to reach it, I could finish smashing the lock on the trunk.
But Carter’s brutal grip traps me. His blood sears my cheeks, mingling with my hot tears.
I scream in defiance, but that doesn’t stop him from touching me, from taking what he wants from me…
My scream wakes me up. I’m tangled in my sheets, sweat dampening my brow.
I shudder and curl into a protective ball, forcing deep breaths through my constricted throat.
Memories of that awful night haven’t haunted my dreams for a long time.
I haven’t allowed a man to touch me in the five years that’ve passed since then.
There’s only Bones, and he’s just a mask on my screen.
Safe. Constant. Comforting.
Desperate for a distraction from my nightmare, I pull out my phone and send him a text:
Karolina
Are you awake? I need you.
2
KAROLINA
My phone vibrates a few minutes later, and I blow out a long sigh of relief.
I answer the video call, and Bones’ demonic red skull mask fills my screen. Even his eyes are obscured by the macabre design, but I know he can see me clearly. A black hood frames the mask, completely obscuring his features so that he’s little more than a leering skull shrouded in inky shadows.
Sometimes, I wish I could see his face, but it’s better this way.
Safer.
He’s just a man on a screen. There’s nothing dangerous about him.
The nightmare clings to me, memories of that terrible night all too close to the surface. Resolutely, I will it to dissipate. Focusing on my carnal connection with my online masked man will soothe me like nothing else. There’s no room in my brain for anything but pleasure when we’re on a call.
“Took you long enough,” I pout, not at all frightened by his appearance.
The little thrill of fear he elicits when we’re indulging in our dark game is erotic, not terrifying.
