There was a long Scarlet O’Hara style staircase ahead. This was quite the house! She tore down the stairs as quickly as she could, skipping two steps at one point and almost taking a tumble. The front door was straight ahead past a circular foyer. There was no time to look for shoes or skirts or purses or anything else. She’d have to take her chances wearing a man’s shirt and no underwear. She grabbed the front door handle, twisted a large lock, and opened it.
Straight ahead she saw a long and winding stone driveway flanked by mature trees on both sides. A big black SUV was racing up outside. The brakes made a squealing sound and the driver’s door flew open.
Oh no.
Tristan climbed out and on his face was a scowl. He’d spotted her. Now he was running toward the house!
Oh shit! Shit, shit, shit!
She backed up into the house, almost tripping, deciding to try to find another way out, maybe a back door, or find the kitchen and grab a butcher knife to defend herself. Before she had a chance to think any further, he was there, in front of her. How had he gotten here so fast? He had her wrists in his grip.
“What do you think you’re doing? And what have you done with Joe?” he looked surprisingly calm. If Kyla had to name the expression, she’d call it calculating.
She let out a small cry as she tried to break free but he wasn’t letting go.
“Come with me.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ah come now,” he laughed low in his throat, “Let’s keep this civilized. Or do I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you? Don’t force me to be a barbarian.”
“Monster!” Kyla spat out.
His eyes lit up with amusement, “Damn straight. You’d do well to remember that.” His eyes appeared to darken, slightly, and her blood ran cold. He clenched his teeth together and fear prickled the back of her neck but then he smirked at her.
He climbed the stairs, pulling her with him. She tried to struggle and swatted at his face. He dodged her slap and then leaned forward and did just as he’d threatened --- he hoisted her over one shoulder like a sack of flour and then he slapped her bare ass.
“Behave!” he hissed, “Don’t make the monster angry…”
How humiliating! “You need to let me go, you motherfucker! I’m not staying here so you can drain me dry. Put me the fuck down!”
“What a potty mouth, Missy,” he slapped her ass again and then dug his fingertips in, “Wait, are you bleeding?” He hoisted her back halfway off his shoulder so she slid down his chest. He caught her by the ass while she was still plastered to his front. He grabbed her hand with his free one and sucked her finger, “Did Joe?” He didn’t finish the sentence. He hoisted her back over his shoulder and then moved faster, almost faster than seemed possible; the space around her sort of blurred by. Then they were outside the bedroom door and Kyla felt dizzy. He jiggled the knob but it was locked.
She heard the lock turn with a thunk, as if it had been unlocked from the other side, and then he opened it. “Is Joe in there?” he demanded.
She didn’t get a chance to answer. The blood was rushing to her head and she tried to balance upward, desperately wanting to cover her exposed behind. He didn’t stop at that door but strode down the long hall to the double doors. He pushed one open and walked in. This was a different bedroom. He dropped her less than gingerly onto a big bed. This room was a lot like the other one but this one was even bigger and not as sparsely furnished.
“Don’t move. Understand?” he pointed at her.
She pulled the shirt down as much as she could.
His eyes blazed with fury. Iciness ran through her veins. “So help me…” he grumbled, leaving the room, slamming the door. She sat, dumbfounded, numb. A second later she heard a big commotion of yelling and things crashing.
Before she had a chance to react, to run for the door to get away from him, or even to think about what to do next, the doors flew open. He was back, on his knees on the floor in front of her, his hands on her knees, his eyes searching her face, “He didn’t touch you? Didn’t feed from you?” he asked, his expression soft but his eyes piercing her in a way that was painful.
She furrowed her brows and shook her head, dumbfounded at his actions.
“Kyla, tell me,” he demanded, his grip on her knees tightening.
“No. I, I hit him over the head with the vase. A thorn pricked my finger… I---” she stopped talking. He exhaled, understanding, and rested his head in her lap. She was startled by the intimacy of the move. He circled her waist with his arms, making her wince. His eyes were closed. He let out a heavy sigh, of relief or something. She’d lifted her arms up in the air and just sat, frozen, tense, trying to absorb everything. He reached for her hand and then sucked on her pricked finger for a second and then let out another sigh.