Lies That Sinners Tell (The Klutch Duet 1)

“Don’t fucking move, or I’ll slit your throat, bitch,” he hissed.

I didn’t know him. He wasn’t wearing a mask or anything. The streetlights were good in my neighborhood, so I could see him in stark detail. He was slightly older than me, but not by much. He had a nice haircut, wasn’t overtly unattractive. He was dressed like any other hipster on the street.

In other words, he didn’t look like someone who would throw a woman against a wall with a knife to her throat. He looked ... normal. Nonthreatening. Which I guessed was the point since I hadn’t even noticed him until he’d thrown me against the wall of the building.

“I don’t have cash,” I rasped. “But the purse is worth a lot of money. You can take that.”

My heart was pounding in my throat, terror moving throughout my body. I was frozen in place. Were you supposed to try to fight with a knife against your throat? What were the chances of him actually using it? Was I more likely to survive if I stayed stationary or if I fought?

“I don’t want the fucking purse,” he growled.

It became quite clear what he wanted when his hand—the one not holding the knife—groped my breast. Hard. Violently.

Cold, sickening dread settled in the bottom of my stomach. Rape. He was going to rape me. There was a knife at my neck. Did I let him rape me in hopes that he wouldn’t stab me? Kill me?

Or did I fight? Did I take the risk of possibly ending up bleeding or dying so I wouldn’t be violated in such a terrible way?

We were still on the street, which unfortunately wasn’t busy at this time of night. Richard and Carl were probably at some trendy restaurant tonight, and Everly was likely at a party. If not, she’d taken enough Valium to keep her asleep through a hurricane. There were a couple of younger people in my building who I encountered every now and then, often hosting parties that my neighbors groused about. Where were they now?

Where was anyone?

It became evident as his hands continued moving, groping me painfully, that no one was coming to save me. That there was no way I could save myself. This horrific thing was going to happen to me. This horrible thing that I’d thought only happened to other women.

I’d read somewhere that victims of violence and sexual assault sometimes went somewhere else in their minds. That their brains protected them from the horror their body was going through.

I got none of that.

Everything happened in stark detail. The smell of his breath, mint with something rancid underneath. His expensive cologne. More expensive than I’d expected a rapist to be wearing. As if rapists were meant to smell of body odor and alcohol.

“Please stop,” I whispered as his hands scrambled with my underwear.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled.

I held my breath. I was about to be violated. Raped. His fingers were dry, probing and violent.

Then they weren’t.

His body was no longer pressed against mine, the blade no longer at my neck. The aftershave lingered, though. Stuck to my skin, seeping through my pores.

Suddenly, someone else was there. Thumps of flesh against flesh told me that, followed by grunts of pain, violence. I watched it all, it was happening just a few feet away from me. It was horrifying. I’d never seen such unrestrained, carnal brutality before. The man who was going to rape me was now laying bleeding on the sidewalk. I wasn’t sure if he was alive, and I couldn’t find it in myself to care enough to find out.

A shape moved toward me—the man who might or might not have just killed my would-be rapist and the man who might or might not be here to save me. He was large. Had a lot of muscles. Wearing all black. Blood on his knuckles. I focused in on that.

“That should be on my knuckles,” I said, still pressed up against the wall.

The man moved toward me slowly, almost hesitantly. Was he showing me that he wasn’t a threat? I couldn’t tell through the thundering of my heart and the blinding pain shooting through my head.

“The blood,” I continued. “That should be on my knuckles. I should’ve fought him.”

“He had a knife to your neck,” the man grunted.

I blinked at him. At the soft, deep voice. There was something familiar about him. I might’ve caught it sooner had I not been reeling from an attack then busy watching someone possibly being killed.

“I know you,” I announced. My voice shook, and I hated that. I wished it could’ve been even, strong. Wish I could’ve been stronger, not feeling like I was about to crumble to pieces and vomit.

The man didn’t say anything as his eyes trailed up and down my body. Assessing. Whatever his reason, his gaze on my skin was unbearable. Violating. In that moment, I was nothing more than an exposed nerve. A man had just proved to me how easily he could’ve stolen something from me. How quickly he could’ve changed the core of me and my life forever.