Ophelia (Hamlet 2)

Turner moved his lower body, pressing closer to Maria. She felt his erection digging into her hip and went motionless. She couldn’t pretend that this wasn’t happening. Which mean that, if she was going to stop him, she had to stop him.

When she didn’t continue to fight him, he took that as a sign that she was accepting him. Accepting what he was going to do to her. Letting go of her wrist, he ran his hand down the side of her face. Stroking her. Petting her.

“That’s a good girl. I could tell that you were waiting for me to make a move. Nice innocent girl like you, you wouldn’t come out and ask for it. Don’t worry. You don’t have to. Lie back and relax. You’ll love this.”

She’d rather die first.

But maybe she wouldn’t have to. Just because she never actually believed thought that she was in danger in Hamlet, it didn’t mean she was a complete idiot. She was a young woman who lived alone in a big house. So what if the only people in Hamlet who had firearms were Caitlin and her deputies? Maria had a different sort of protective weapon.

And she only had one shot.

Bucking her body, she surprised Turner enough that he pulled away from her. She immediately reached out with her right arm, throwing all of her weight towards that side of her bed, aimlessly grasping along the floor.

Where is it? Where is it? Where— Yes!

With an angry curse, he grabbed her arm, threw her bodily back onto the bed. “You’re not gonna get away from me!” he sneered, squeezing both of her cheeks roughly as he turned her head to face him.

He was grinding her teeth together. It hurt like hell but she still managed to shoot back, “Wanna bet?”

Then, with as much strength as she could summon, Maria took the bat she kept stored under her bed and whacked him wherever she could hit.

The instant the wood cracked against the back of his leg, his grip on her cheek went slack. Maria took advantage of his lapse by turning

her head and biting down on the fleshy part of his palm.

Turner’s shriek was deafening. And yet it seemed like a dull roar compared to the thunder of her beating heart and the blood rushing to her head.

He yanked his hand back wildly, slapping her in the face hard. Once. Twice. Slap. Slap. Maria barely felt the sting. But when he jammed the thumb on his other hand into the fleshy underside of her chin, he got her to release her teeth.

Blood filled her mouth. It tasted like rusty metal smelled, foul and hot, and only fueled her animalistic drive to get out of this as the victor, not the victim. As quick as she could, she scrambled back in her bed, bumping up against the headboard. She clutched the handle of the bat between her fingers, ready to strike again.

Turner cradled his hand, looking down at it in disbelief. This close, she could see the teeth marks and the well of dark red that filled them.

“You bitch,” he snarled. “You took a chunk out of my hand! What the hell is wrong with you— hey! What did you do that for?”

She spat the blood at his face. It hit him right in the eye. He immediately lifted his good hand to wipe at it.

And made the mistake of looking away.

Now!

The bat whooshed, slicing through the air as Maria aimed for Turner’s head and missed it only by inches.

Turner fell on his back, his features twisted in a look of oh, shit. One part terror, one part lust, he licked his lips and scrambled back. She still had the bat, her chest heaving in a way that drew his eye.

But then she reared back again, preparing to swing, and Turner realized that, no matter how much he wanted this woman—and, oh, did he want her—he really, really misread the signals she was sending him. Because Maria De Angelis wasn’t glaring at him like she wanted him anything other than dead.

Too bad.

It didn’t matter that she said no. The second he got inside of her, she’d be screaming yes.

He just had to get the bat away from her first.

Her fighting turned him on. From the other side of the bed, he leered at Maria. Her nightshirt slipped during the struggle, revealing her tan shoulder and enough skin to have him lick his lips again. Her long hair was mussed from sleep; he couldn’t wait to see it wild and untamed after he tugged it through his hands as he took her. He’d been fantasizing about her hair for days now.

“Don’t make this hard on yourself, baby.” Turner panted as he spoke, his dark eyes glazed over in perverse desire. “You’ll enjoy it more.”

“Touch me again,” she warned in a low voice, “and I’ll kill you.”