Cellar Door

Why else would she be standing in a storm in the middle of the night? By herself?

If someone depended on her, she would be pleading for her life. After witnessing the destruction I can do to another human, she would be begging, bartering to live. Not matching my curious stare with a cool temper.

“Who are you?” she asks, her breath fogging the crisp night air. “Why did you kill him?” Her gaze slips from mine down to the hunting knife that straps my leg.

She’s shivering. Drenched in cold rain, adrenaline careening through her veins, she’s minutes away from a crash.

I don’t have time to wait her out, for the crash to claim her. I move quickly. She attempts to back away, but her reflexes aren’t as sharp now. I dip low and grab her around her too-trim waist and haul her over my shoulder.

She cries out, kicking and clawing at my back. I feel nothing through the leather. “Let me go! What the fuck—?”

“Shut up.” Her frantic plea dies at the heavy boom in my voice. But the reprieve only lasts a moment before she’s fighting again.

She wriggles her body down my torso. I clamp my arm around her back, but I’m worried I might crack her thin bones. That second of hesitation costs me, and she slithers free. She lands on the ground hard.

“Dammit.” I stomp toward her.

She crawls on her hands and knees through a puddle. Filmy water sloshes her long hair and face. I reach for her ankle and she kicks at me, landing a good hit with her boot to my shin. Fuck, that hurts—but I latch on to her foot and drag her backward.

Her scream ricochets around us, the alley a perfect acoustic hub to bounce her fear back at her. She slings threats at me, calling me names. Monster. Animal.

Killer.

I’m all of those things.

And I use the wrath and revulsion to do what’s necessary.

I seize the back of her neck and hold her against the mucky ground as I straddle my knees on either side of her tiny body. I lock my forearm around her neck.

“Could’ve done this the quiet, easy way,” I seethe through gritted teeth.

Her subdued, strangled cry ices my blood, but I tighten my hold, depriving her of oxygen. “Fuck you—” Her whispered insult dies on her lips, right along with her fight.

As she loses consciousness, I slowly release her. I check to make sure she’s still breathing, then sit back on my heels and drive a shaky hand through my damp hair. I replace the hood that fell back during the struggle and get to my feet, hauling her limp body up with me.

The sudden illumination of lights casts a yellow glow on the lot. Damn. Woke the neighbors. I make quick work of transporting Keller to the trunk of my car before I put the woman in the backseat, deciding she might be traumatized enough. Better not lock her inside with a dead body.

I slide behind the driver’s seat and coast away from the warehouse. I keep my headlights off until I’m a few blocks away.

That was lucky.

And sloppy.

Major damage control is n

eeded. I have a strict rule about returning to a scene of a crime—never do it—but right now, staying to clean up isn’t an option. There’s not enough time to secure the alley. Which means I have to go back—to make sure nothing was left behind.

Not even a witness.

I push my hood off and glance at the backseat. Hell, too many rules broken tonight.

The drive to Fall City passes too quickly, not giving me enough time to think. I park inside the two-car garage and lower the door before killing the engine. Dragging my hand down my face wearily, I feel every ache and pain more acutely now that the adrenaline has ebbed.

With a sluggishness that doesn’t match my thirty-six years, I climb out of the vehicle and wrench the seat forward. She’s still passed out. There’s a chance she won’t remember what she saw, or what I look like. Panic, stress, and shock do things to the mind to distort memory.

Yeah. Chance.

Might as well call it what it is: Risk.