That’s not possible…
The knot in the pit of my stomach hardens. I look out over the sea—all the way to the horizon. It’s still a calm, beautiful day. There are seagulls amassing along the shore and pecking at mussels on the rocks. The whole scene is all too perfect—all too surreal. It doesn’t mesh with the arms gripping me from behind or the madman rushing toward us from the dunes.
And Bastian Stark isn’t a real person. He’s a character from a novel I read years ago.
As Bastian approaches the group, he speaks no words. Instead, he screams as he leaps into the air and collides with the man with dreadlocks. They crash to the sand, and with a single, swift motion, Bastian shoves his knife into the man’s neck. The sand is immediately covered in blood.
I open my mouth to scream, but nothing happens. I can’t move. I can’t make a sound. All I can do is watch.
There is a flurry of movement. My eyes can’t keep track of it all, and my feet feel as if they’ve sunk into the sand, leaving me immobile and helpless as I watch the violence in front of me. The man who was holding me is no longer there—he’s in the middle of the battle with the rest of them—but I can still feel the grip of his fingers around my arms.
One of the men grabs Bastian from behind, and another swings at him with a switchblade. Bastian leans back, using his captor as leverage to bring his legs up. His muscular limbs capture the man holding the knife, and Bastian squeezes him between his thighs. I hear a sharp crack before the man drops to the ground, lifeless. Bastian then flips his captor over his shoulders, throwing him into the waves. I watch the body bob up and down for a moment, struggling against the riptide before it sinks and doesn’t resurface.
Bastian has the last man—the one with the black ponytail—down on the ground. He hits him over and over again, alternating punching him in the face with one hand and using the knife to stab him in the neck with the other. I can’t breathe. I can only stand there and stare at the carnage as the sand turns red.
The man is motionless, and his face is a mess of blood and bone. He’s long dead—I’m sure of it—but Bastian keeps screaming and hitting him.
“Bastian, stop!” I yell.
Slowly, he pushes away from the mutilated body on the ground and stands. His eyes are wild. His chest rises and falls with deep, labored breaths. The knife in his hand drips blood onto the sand as he turns his feral gaze to me.
I feel my pulse throb between my legs as I gasp. I’ve never laid eyes on this man before, but my body’s reaction to his gaze is immediate and undeniable. Bastian’s tight muscles ripple as he moves closer, wiping the blade on his arm. I can’t take my eyes off his perfectly tanned and toned body.
He takes a step closer to me as he drops the bloodied knife into the sand. I know I should step away from this crazed killer, but I don’t move. I’m captivated by the look of unbridled lust in his eyes.
For me or for the blood?
He takes another step toward me, stopping only a foot away from where I stand. I watch him lick his lips, and the throb between my legs makes itself known again.
“Kandace…”
How does he know my name?
He starts to reach for me but stops suddenly as he looks at his blood-covered hand. He drags his tongue over his lips again, and I see his throat bob as he swallows.
“Your hands are bleeding,” I say softly.
“It’s not my blood.”
“Still…” I take a deep breath as I look from his hands to the edge of the water. “Come on. Let’s get you washed off.”
He follows me to the waves, and I carefully cup my hands to collect water to wash his hands and arms. The salt water mixes with the blood, diluting it as it washes the red streaks away. It only takes a moment before his skin is cleaned of blood. There was so much of it—how did it come off so quickly?
I take his large hands in mine and run my thumbs over his palms. They are rough and callused—the hands of a man who knows how to use them and use them well. I turn his hands over, carefully checking them for injury, but they look perfect. There’s no more blood, no bruising, no scratches on them at all.
None of this makes sense. I know it doesn’t, but my mind can’t seem to focus on the disbelief. All my attention is on the man next to me. My eyes are filled with the sight of the sun glistening on his back and the curve of his biceps. I can smell the musky scent of his skin and feel the heat from his body as he stands close to me. It’s more brilliant than the heat from the equatorial sun.
My heart beats quickly in my chest. I’m finding it difficult to control my breathing, and my thighs are clenching together against my will. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, wondering what I am supposed to do or say now.
I’ve never wanted someone so badly in my life.
Bastian wraps his fingers around my hands, squeezes them briefly, and then traces his fingers up my arms. He rests his hands on my shoulders for a moment as he stares at me. The wild, uncontrolled look is back in his eyes.
I drop my gaze to his full lips. He moistens them with his tongue, and I know exactly what he’s about to do. My whole body seems to know. There’s a tingling sensation starting at the bottom of my feet and working its way up my legs. I feel sweat beginning to form between my shoulder blades.
He crashes his mouth to mine. This is no gentle first kiss. There is no build up, no pause before he touches his lips to mine. His kiss possesses me with no room for argument, no option but to surrender to his will. By the time he breaks away, I’m panting, and the stubble from his chin has left my skin raw.
The kiss feels amazing.