I have to break free, somehow…
But judging from the weight of him he has more than ninety pounds on her. His flesh-piercing grip loosens around her waist but it isn’t enough. She can barely breathe herself and her eyes search, her brain coming up barren. She knows this room like the back-of-her-hand, but the terror of the situation eradicates all possible weapons, escapes, or even screams.
He hasn’t killed me yet…
Still being alive is a good sign for Becky because if he’s some homicidal murderer she’d be lying in her own pool of blood by now.
He could be a burglar… or worse… Oh God, no... a rapist.
She has to do something. But what? Physically hurting him in her position is impossible right now. Maybe talking is the only solution of a way out. If she can distract him, get his mind on something else, freedom might be in her grasp. She gulps a couple of times.
Shit, shit, shit… what can I say that won’t make him snap?
She twists her head, slowly, hoping he won’t suddenly attack her. But then fear clogs her throat. She can’t speak without choking.
Forgetting any sense of logic she just had she uses the only weapon that comes from instinct.
Her teeth.
She bites him, right through the leather. She hears a grunt as his hand swings up, and then a second later the rest of her body is unbound from him. She lunges for the door, her hand latching onto the cool feeling of the doorknob—
“Help...” The hiss is an urgent hot cry but it’s also cold. Deadly cold. Every impulse screams at her to run. And not look back.
But she doesn’t.
Instead she turns, picturing a gun or knife that has to be drawn along with a sadistic grin, stamping her fate before she meets the afterlife.
And for a moment, peering at him, she’s hypnotized by his gaze. Backlit by the Moon, leaning against one of her paintings, he looks like a carved stone idol with luminous jewel eyes. Becky wants to turn and run but she can’t move, rooted to the floor in the grip of fear.
The moonlight bounces off his profile making the skin appear gray and red. There’s a vein on the side of his neck protruding. From the contortion of his face, the sweat dripping off his nose, he’s in a great deal of pain.
Her eyes travel lower, her hand still glued to the door just in case this is a way the beast lures its prey...
He’s clutching his right side and his right elbow is locked to the side of his stomach like he’s a disfigured piece of clay.
The blood... it’s his.
Becky shakes her head slowly. She has to call 911. She can’t help this man and she doesn’t want to ever lay her eyes on him. Her mind is made up and set.
The floor creaks, her body jolting a little to obey the miniscule amount of rational in her. But the creak goes off like gunfire in the silent room that for a few deathly minutes has only consisted of both their breaths inhaling and exhaling.
“Don't."
She starts to open the door as he forces himself to straighten to his full height. Becky's kneecaps threaten to crack, estimating his size to be over six-foot-two.
She points her finger at him when he takes half-a-step toward her. “Y-You stay right there," she warns. He doesn’t listen. He isn’t even looking at her or anything. The slump of his posture tilts forward. He’s weakening. “Just stay there. The police will deal with you."
“No… No cops.” His hoarse voice croaks before he coughs into his gloved hand. “Just… let me..."
“I-I think you should just stay still… Whatever happened to you… I'm sure moving around won’t make it any better.” She hates the accent of fright that tinges her voice but she can’t control herself.
He just keeps right on walking toward her.
“Look there—if you don't stop moving I'm going to scream." His head shoots up at her courage and he looks right through her; his blue eyes pained and ghostly. And then recognition ricochets against her skull.
The man from last night.
The one with the Devil's eyes.
“You…” Her heart thumps louder and louder.
Has he been stalking me? Is he here to—
And then he collapses.
The thud sends the dust on the floor flying everywhere, floating about the room like tiny fairies who have been hiding in all the creaks and crevasses of the old wooden floor. An easel crashes to the floor and Becky’s heart beats overtime as she whips her head around searching for a ghost in the dark.
Calming her breathing down she braves a few inches forward counting the steps along the way, frantic for a distraction.
She listens. His heavy pants have ceased.
Is he… dead? Oh God, no... There’s only one way to know for sure... Damn it!
Becky kneels next to him, short on thought, full on action. Her left hand supports her weight, the other one leaning in to graze his forehead. She sees a gun tucked into his jeans...
He’s hot and clammy, his forehead leaves a sheen of sweat on her palm. She wipes it on her dress and sees that his other hand is clutching the wound. Her hand hovers over his then relaxes. Her nails slide over the skin of his knuckles and a strange jolt runs through her. Ignoring the physical warning it echoes she struggles to remove the death grip he has over his side. The wound doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, but she can’t tell how much blood he’s lost to begin with.
The bullet wound is in the right side of his abdomen. By the hold he has on himself a shattered rib or two is the least amount of damage done. There’s no telling what other internal injuries lay behind the blood. And the more that time passes, the lesser his chances are.
“Please..” His fingers circle her forearm and the pressure jerks her off balance, forcing her to hover over him.
Close. He is too close.
“I'll leave… just… don't say anything. I can't—” He winces, doesn’t breathe, just goes rigid. She guesses it’s from a spasm of pain. His eyes look like they’re about to pop through his closed lids and his teeth grind.
She has to call someone before it’s too late. Before she’s reporting a dead intruder instead of a live one. But when she makes a move to leave his side, something catches her eye.
Something silver glints in the moonlight around his neck.
What is that…?
She leans in, her eyes squinting, trying to get a clearer view of the object.
A silver cross…
But it isn’t the pendant that draws her attention. To the left, at the base of his neck, there is a tattoo, a word or... her fingertip feathers over it.
Oh my God... it can’t be...
She is so close to him that there is no denying the script inked into his skin: ‘OLIVIA.’
Her entire being shakes and thousands of shivers shoot through her spine as though someone has just walked over her grave.
H-How…? How is this possible? Does he know who I am? Is he... I-I—
The weight of her past almost buries her right there and then and her mouth opens just as his body caves into her. The tight grasp of his fingertips around her arm lessen a bit, but they remain encased around her.
“Please…” he chokes out, “…no cops."
“I-I…” She is speechless, doesn't know what to say. “You—you need a doctor.” The gentleness of her voice catches her off guard. She sounds just like she does when she’s trying to soothe Toby. Becky immediately withdraws her arm and he doesn’t move to stop her. “You broke into my house so I need to call—”
“The window was open."
“Are you…” She searches his face and he actually has a faint smirk playing there. She ignores the toying edge of his voice. “You shouldn't move. Once I call they should get you to the hospital pretty fast."
“I can’t. I can’t go… to the hospital."
“Why not?"
“Because,” he barely breathes out, “I can’t."
“I can’t just leave you here. I need to let..."
His breaths are coming h
arder the more he talks. “I can't go. Pretend you never saw me."
“Pretend?”
His eyes turn serious and he raises them to her. “I didn’t take anything. I… no-one can know I’m here, please… There’s this… a gang… a very dangerous gang is after me... and if I go to hospital they’ll find me and kill me. Just let me leave."
“The hospital—”
“No,” he says, fiercely, almost spitting the words out. His profile sharpens and a shot of adrenaline shoots through her body. She retracts just a step. He eyes her up and down and she gulps as a drip of sweat falls over his lips.
Here in her arms is the man who saved her. The man she’s been dreaming about nearly every night for the last four years. But can she trust him? It’s not like she knows him. Four years is a long time—enough time for a person to change. And why is he here of all places? Has he tracked her down? Is he… stalking her?
He turns to face the ceiling. “I won’t hurt you, I—"
“Rebecca?"
Oh, God!
Her father.
“Don’t,” he warns. “The ones after me... if they know I was here they’ll come after your family.”
“Why? We haven’t done anything.”
“Doesn’t matter... They’ll do whatever it takes to make sure my murder... can’t be linked to them... They’ll... kill you all.”
“Rebecca?!”
She dashes to the door, pats her hair, brushing the anxiety down with each stroke of her palms against the sides of her dress.
She steps out of the darkness and into the light.
“Y-Yes?"
Her father stands at the bottom of the second set of stairs. His voice is almost a whisper, but she can sense the underlining worry because it mirrors her own. “Is everything okay? I heard something bang up there."
“I... uh…"
“Rebecca. I told you not to go up there at night. Your mother and I have all our junk stored up there. You could really hurt yourself."
“Dad, I… I didn’t fall... You see…” Becky twists her body, gazing at the intruder laying only a few feet away. The truth is so close to release, her safety just a step away.
Tell Dad. Scream bloody murder—just do something!
Just as she opens her mouth she wavers.
He saved you…
‘They’ll kill you all...’
If her father calls the police she risks her family getting caught up in some gang war. And if they kill him—kill the man who’d saved her from a brutal rape and maybe even murder—then how can she ever live with herself for being a coward?
No. She can’t let the past be a reason to put her family in danger. She has to say something to her father; he’ll know what to do.
Before the words to argue can penetrate her thick skull Becky hears herself saying the exact opposite of her intentions, “I… the easel just fell… I was trying to paint."
She’s lied to her father.
For a stranger.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“In the dark?" he asks, placing one foot on the step ahead.
“No, Dad… I’m fine,” she says, making sure her father doesn’t come up to check the attic. “I was just antsy after the party and couldn’t sleep. Dad, go back to bed, I'm fine. I didn’t mean to startle you."
“You didn’t.” The landing groans under him as he steps back and Becky guesses she’s in the clear. For now. It doesn’t relieve her one bit. She hears her father clear his throat before he continues, “I've got to go to the office. I won't be back probably till tomorrow sometime."
“Is everything okay?"
“Yes, Pumpkin, everything's okay. There's just a couple of glitches in the monthly numbers… that's all… I already told your mother who’s insisting on coming with me."
Becky descends the stairs, for some odd reason she is compelled to see him. He sounds defeated, his body stagnant.
“Dad—”
“Take care of your baby brother.” He kisses her forehead, his voice stern like when he used to tell her to clean her room.
“You'll be back tomorrow, right?” Becky peers up at her father's face, which is etched in uncertainty. “Dad?"
“You look pretty tonight, Pumpkin."
Her eyes examine his face. “What’s going on?"
“I love you, Pumpkin. See you tomorrow.” He kisses her forehead for a second time—more quickly than the last—and doesn’t wait for her to respond. Instead he grabs his briefcase and shuts the door behind him without looking back.
“I love you too…" she murmurs.
Taking one step at a time she prays the monster in the attic has left so she can pretend none of this ever happened.
When she takes the last footstep into the attic, the last couple of minutes of her life play through her like a distorted dream; flashing and twisting through her like small spasms. Her body is on the crest of a wave, just seconds away from crashing. But this isn’t the time. The crying and whatever else that comes along with being terrified will have to come later.
No matter what this intruder says she can’t trust any vow that comes flowing from his lips. If this is gang related then he’s obviously a very dangerous and violent man, despite her heart telling her otherwise.
He said he wouldn’t hurt her. She didn’t believe him. At first. But finding out who he is… she can do nothing but listen to her heart. She doesn’t want to trust him because if she’s wrong, it can cost her—her life.
But she owes him. She’ll let him leave as he had asked and her debt will be paid. Life can move on…
He’s precisely in the same place and position she left him in. He is still. Deathly so.
Please don’t be dead…
Pressing two fingers into the side of his throat she waits for a pulse. After several seconds of empty searching a faint thump vibrates against her fingertips. It’s soft, barely existent, and she isn’t sure if it’s actually just her imagination. Holding her own breath she leans against his chest, giving one glance toward his face, sure he’s unconscious from how peaceful his features stay. The strum of his heartbeat greets her, but it’s slow and waning. A tear pricks her eyes.
What do I do now?
His shirt stirs under her ear. “I'm... okay...” The whisper breaks the surrounding silence.
Backing away she nears the door, supporting herself against the wall. “Uh, you need a doctor."
“The bullet… went in and out… I'm not bleeding anymore."
Don’t say anything! Just let him leave.
“You can have internal injuries. I can’t just let you..."
Why won’t I shut up?!
Becky curses under her breath. It’s second nature for her to want to help people; it’s the reason why she studies diligently and why she chose Stanford. Her only focus in life is to become a doctor one day. But it isn’t doing her nerves any favors at the moment.
“Help me up," he says.
Becky nods her head then sees he isn’t paying attention to anything but his wounded side. His face is twisted sideways, facing the direction of the injured area.
“No. I'm calling an ambulance."
He’s going to die if she doesn’t. She stands, determined and a bit angry—mostly directed at herself.
“No?” he asks, clutching his side with his opposite hand and forces himself to sit up. “I'll leave. Pretend you never saw me."
His face contorts in pain and Becky does nothing to help him. She is numb. Numb to this whole ordeal. He struggles, clinging to everything around him from the junk on the floor to the old beam that holds the place up. He isn’t going to make it. No matter how strong he appears and from what Becky can decipher he is stronger than most.
Finally he stands erect, a little bent over and shaking. For a man near death he fights for a good impression of being alive.
“You never saw me,” he says, his words severe but softly spoken.
And then he makes a break for it.
Steppin
g—stomping—closer to her and Becky finds herself leaning into the wall, further and further.
There is no give. She is trapped!
“I-I... this... you need to be still, this isn't good for your wound."
He’s making the injury worse... God, he’s so stubborn!
“Used to it,” he replies, his gruff answer flows over her attempt to stall. “I won’t bother you again as long as you do what I say."
“I can't do that."
She hears herself say the words but hopes against hope it’s the voice in her brain talking loud. Talking really loud. Of course she’s wrong.
Reaching his full height his shoulders straighten. Everything else goes cold around him—around her—like a sudden chill sweeping through the entire room. Crowded in an already small space Becky switches her weight from foot-to-foot, alert to the horror written all over her face.
She makes herself look at him, her eyes crawl up the long stature of his beast-like body. The wound—a mere shadow, a distraction—compared to the muscles and definition lined everywhere, mean nothing to his strength. Her response includes a gulp and a swallow of moisture that follows down her tummy and lands somewhere along her legs.
She takes in his pout, his angled nose and sharp, almost animalistic, cheek bones. His stare preys on her. Wolf-like blue eyes instinctually tear her down with arctic detachment.
His wound, his pain—where is it all now? Maybe it was just an act to get her back in here because she’s the only witness?
Damn. Crap. I’m such a freaking idiot!
Rebecca Appleton, having at least two opportunities to escape from this murdering pig, is going to die, not because she has to, but because she’s a total and complete moron who follows her heart and not her head!
If she does survive she hopes her ability to speak will be lost because telling reporters or whoever asks why she didn’t run when she had the chance was because: She was overcome with naïve compassion for this award-winning criminal who had punctured her nurturing side.
Mustering up whatever internal strength she has left she tells—orders—herself to do whatever it takes to stay alive. She hasn’t come all this way in life—graduating, living in a small town in the middle of nowhere, surviving a violent assault at just fourteen-years-old, and Emmett Irving—to just die when her life is finally about to change for the better.