Sahvage ground his molars. “I’m going to wait until you tell me yes. I take lives against the will, but never females.”
Time stretched out, lengthening like a cord with give in it, becoming longer and longer. And in the electric quiet between them, he became acutely aware of her breathing. It was getting deeper. And that pulse at her throat? It was getting faster.
“I won’t hurt you,” he vowed.
“Yes, you will.”
She took her hand from him and turned away. Over at the sink, she ran water and put her finger under the rush with a gasp. Meanwhile, he stayed right where he was, a frown yanking his brows together.
When she cut the faucet and snapped a paper towel out of a roll, he said, “What the hell kind of male do you think I am?”
Pivoting back to him, she wrapped the wound up. “You’re a killer. Right? You seem to have to prove that not only to me but to everybody you meet. And killers hurt people.”
“You think you’re in danger around me. Seriously.”
“If life has taught me anything, it’s that I am not due any special exceptions. So yes, I think you are dangerous to me.”
He pointed to the front of the house. “I saved your fucking life out there.”
“Well, then we’re even, aren’t we. And you can leave with a free conscience.”
Sahvage looked at the shirt he’d taken off. Snatching the thing back, he pulled it over his head and got to his feet. As he loomed across the kitchen at the female, she met him right in the eye, not giving an inch.
“You’re going to die,” he said baldly. “Maybe with me around, but definitely without me. What’s out there? You don’t know where it went, and it’s stupid to assume that any kind of grave was involved. But I can’t make you save yourself or that old female downstairs.”
“Thank you.”
“Excuse me?”
“For the prognostication. Are you done, or do you want to try your hand at lottery numbers? Maybe who’s going to win the Super Bowl next year?”
“Have fun picking out a matched set of coffins. God knows you always make the right decisions, don’t you.”
On that note, he picked up his jacket and his weapons, and walked to the front door. Moving the massive piece of oak furniture aside, he let himself out.
Pity there wasn’t someone in the cottage strong enough to put the barricade back. But as that female had so often pointed out to him . . . not his problem.
• • •
Mae watched Sahvage disappear through the front door. He didn’t slam the thing shut. He didn’t have to.
When she was sure that he was gone, she rushed across to the parlor and threw the copper lock into place. Then she put her back against the stout panels of the hutch and tried to shove it into the door. When all she got was a lot of slipping shoes and hard breathing, she clamped her mouth closed on the curses in her throat—
A groan from the floorboards overhead had her whipping her attention to the ceiling.
Heart pounding in her ears, she swallowed hard and wondered where she had left her mace. Then she remembered she’d emptied the canister trying to gas that . . . whatever it was.
Staring at the ceiling, she heard nothing further. No doubt the old cottage was just reacting to the night’s drop in temperature—
Mae jumped and looked to the left. Was that something moving in between the legs of a side table?
Rubbing her eyes, she thought of Rhoger and melting ice.
And Tallah downstairs, all but passed out from exhaustion.
“We’re fine. This is all fine.”
Unable to stay still, she went into the kitchen—and stalled out. Not for long, though. Seized by an urgency utterly unrelated to the reality that she had all but kicked out her best shot at fighting anything that might show up at the cottage, she grabbed a bucket from under the sink and filled it full of hot soapy water. There was only a single sponge in the house, and it was going to have to take one for the team.
Getting down on her knees, she scrubbed the grimy square where the fridge had been. And scrubbed. And scrubbed.
Her arm went numb, her shoulder joint burned, her palms and fingers got raw.
But goddamn it, when she was finished? That floor sparkled.
Of course, the bright, sunshiny square made the rest of the old linoleum look like it had been laid back before the Punic Wars. And she was out of gas. Out of sponge, too.
Inspecting the thing’s frayed corners and the nearly black bed, she decided it looked like she felt: all used up, worn down, shredded.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, she did some math. Then she measured the refrigerator that blocked the back door and all the shutters that were in place—