Grace stumbled backward and tripped over the leg of her chair. She flailed, windmilling her arms as she tried to keep her balance, but Grace went down on her backside. Her head rapped hard against the wood floor and she saw bursts of light behind her eyes. Grace’s vision was blurry and her head throbbed painfully.
Suddenly Kyle was looming over her again, filling her entire field of blurred vision. He glared down at her malevolently but that light of lust still shone in his eyes. Belatedly, Grace covered her bare breast, trying to hold the torn pieces of fabric together.
“You are going to be mine, Grace,” he slurred.
She shook her head. “Please, Kyle, do not do this.”
“You are mine and I will take what I want from you.”
A shudder of fear and revulsion swept through her as she watched him lick his lips lasciviously.
“And right now,” he huffed, “I want to have you.”
Grace opened her mouth, a keening wail issuing from her throat as Kyle fell to his knees beside her. His hand were on her, groping, grabbing, pinching. He grabbed at the hem of her dress and tried to pull it up. Grace reached back and smacked him as hard as she was able. But it didn’t seem to faze Kyle as he merely gave her a wavering grin.
“You might as well stop fightin’ Grace,” he said. “It won’t do you any good.”
Grace screamed as she kicked and slapped at Kyle but it only seemed to excite him more. He grew more aggressive and laughed at her feeble attempts to push him away. This was all a game to him–a horrible, drunken game.
“Stop fighting me!” he roared.
But then he stopped. A look of confusion crossed his face–an expression that was mirrored on Grace’s as she watched a thin piece of what looked like steel burst from his shoulder. Grace screamed in horror as she realized it was a sword protruding from Kyle’s shoulder, staining the front of his tunic crimson.
She had never seen battle and had never seen a man be stabbed before. Fortershire was a quiet, prosperous town where murders were rare. The worst Grace had ever seen was a man being punched outside of a tavern and very little bloodshed.
The sword was withdrawn and a moment later, the butt of the hilt crashed on Kyle’s head with a sickening crunch. His eyes rolled up and his mouth fell open as he slumped to the side, falling off of her entirely.
He hit the ground with a wet, meaty thud and lay still, the blood from his shoulder pooling around the unconscious man. As terrified as she was and as much as she disliked Kyle, she never would have wished that upon him.
Standing before her, the tip of his sword red with Kyle’s blood was a man she had never seen before. He had a fearsome look about him that sent a wave of fear rolling through her. The man was tall and broad through the shoulders and chest. He had hair the color of flames and a thick, red beard to match. The stranger’s green eyes glittered in the firelight, looking like polished jade.
“Wh…who are you?” she asked, trembling as hard as her body could muster.
“Are ye all right, lass?” the man asked, his accent marking him out as Scottish.
Grace felt overwhelmed and overcome by fear and darkness danced at the edges of her vision.
He saved me. I don’t think he’s here to hurt me. But he looks so big and so terrifying. I’ve never seen a more frightful-looking man.
He was rugged, and though she did not know any Scots herself, she had heard they were brutal and vicious. Grace tried to cling to consciousness, fearful of what might happen if she gave into the darkness.
But then, she was not given much of a choice. The darkness reached up and latched onto her, pulling her down into its deep, warm embrace. And Grace gave herself over to it. The last thing she saw was the large, red-haired man kneeling next to her, a look of concern on his face.
But then her vision faded and she lost her hold, and the entire world around her went black.