Beauty in Deception

The sight of the weapon jerks me back into action. Not taking my gaze off the danger, I retreat until my back hits the wall. He stops with one boot in the circle of light. The chalky tint of the bulb washes diagonally over his face and body, highlighting brown hair with a copper tint that’s slightly too long and a beard shaved close to his skin. His features are angular and sharp, the cut of his nose straight and the line of his jaw strong. His eyes are the color of dark bourbon, a stunning rare russet. The weak illumination catches them in a peculiar way, making them shine like a vampire’s from within, but it’s not the play of light that frightens me most. It’s the calculated look in those pools.

Widening his stance, he says in a deep voice, “Evie.”

With that single word, he confirms my worst suspicion. This is a premeditated attack. He’s after Evie specifically. His objective can only be ransom or revenge. Bell Warren has a lot of money, and he has even more enemies.

Violent shaking sets in as the truth registers. I still don’t feel cold, but my teeth chatters.

“Evie,” he says again.

How can his tone be so threatening and gentle at the same time?

“You have two choices,” he continues. “You can come with me without making a fuss, and you won’t risk hurting yourself more.”

The fact that he doesn’t state the second option isn’t lost on me. He takes another step toward me, putting his body fully in the light. He wears a rollneck sweater and a leather jacket that stretches over the wide expanse of his shoulders. Dark jeans mold to his powerful legs. He looks fit and in shape, like he works out often. I don’t stand a chance in fighting him.

He lifts his free hand, offering me his palm. I home in on how large that hand is and on the veins that run up his wrist and disappear under the sleeve of his jacket. He can crush my neck with a squeeze of his fingers, but I won’t give up without a fight. I won’t surrender willingly and just let him take me.

With his arm stretched out toward me, he takes another step. Instinctively, I flatten my body against the wall.

He drops his eyes to my chest and then lower. Following his gaze, I notice the tear in the dress on the side that exposes my hip and my underwear.

“You’re bleeding,” he says. “Let me take a look at that.”

Breathing in and out through my nose, I somewhat calm my shivering and adopt a slack pose.

He gives an approving nod. “Good girl.”

When he closes the last step and reaches for me, I bring my knee up hard. Before my kneecap connects with its target between his legs, he strikes out, inhumanly fast, and catches my leg. I nearly topple over. My arms flail as I battle to maintain my balance. I haven’t yet found my footing when my back hits the wall so hard the air leaves my lungs. He grabs my uninjured hip and presses me against the bricks with one hand while pushing a forearm over my throat. The gun is so close to my face I swear I can smell the gun oil. He doesn’t apply pressure on my windpipe, but the threat is indubitable. He won’t even need the gun to kill me.

“Evie.” A disapproving smile curves his lips. “I really hoped you weren’t going to choose option two.”

My heart slams between my ribs. Pinned to the wall, I’m as good as defenseless. The only weapons I have are my hands. I don’t hesitate to use them. I ball my right hand into a fist and punch him in the stomach with everything I’ve got. At the same time, I scratch his face with my left hand, leaving four red lines in the wake of my nails. His eyes flare with surprise, but he doesn’t even grunt. When he releases my hip to take something from his pocket, I fight with all my might, twisting and kicking. The pressure of his forearm increases, cutting off my airflow. I grab his arm instead, trying to pull him off me so that I can breathe. My screams are muffled, useless sounds.

“Shh, Evie,” he says with a regretful tone, a tone reserved for delivering bad news or condolences.

It only makes me fight harder.

When he finally lets my throat go, it’s to cover my mouth and nose with a moist cloth. I don’t want to inhale, but my lungs do it automatically. They drag in the pungent smell of chemicals with too little air.

I resist. I don’t give up, but my vision blurs and my body turns heavy. It’s like when I had my wisdom teeth removed and the anesthetist told me to count backward from ten. I don’t get to four before my world blacks out.