Page 7 of Brutal Prince

Holy shit. He’s fucking huge.

Something brushes the back of my hand, but I’m too transfixed on the monster who’s standing less than a yard away, scanning the church interior as if he’s trying to pick up my scent. Despite his size, he moves with the grace and casual ease of a hunter searching for his prey.

Which, in this case, is me.

My skin crawls, and it takes me a second to realize it’s because there’s something on the back of my hand, not just because I’m close to wetting myself.

It takes everything I have to look down.

A spider. And this isn’t just a Daddy Long Legs. Nope. What’s crawling on my hand is one nasty looking sonofabitch; all spidery fuzz and lethal-looking fangs. A scream bubbles in the back of my throat.

Without bothering to consider the repercussions, I flick it off me. The sleeve of my hoody snags on a bramble thorn. My urgent movements shake the whole bush.

The guy spins to face me and lunges forward.

I yell out, but the sound barely leaves my lips before he grabs my ankles and drags me out of my hiding place.

The knife. The fucking knife!

But he’s too far away, and a moving target. If I have any chance of getting in a shot, I’ll have to wait.

My chest closes, heart thumping like a wild stallion as I flip onto my stomach and furiously try to claw myself away from him.

One of my ankles is suddenly free. I glance back, and immediately try kicking the guy in the face.

He dodges effortlessly, and starts laughing.

The sound of that cold, heartless chuckle turns my marrow to ice. I scream, voice hoarse from fear, as I struggle and kick. He grabs the bottom of my hoody and drags me over cracked, dusty flagstones, until there’s nothing left for me to try and grab for.

He straddles my lower back. I hurriedly close my fingers around the knife, trying to hide it until I’m ready to use it.

I buck my hips to try and throw him off but he’s too fucking heavy.

“The fuck you doing in my town?” he growls.

In this position, I’ll be slashing out behind me, probably just snagging on his clothes. I have to be facing him, or behind him, if I stand any chance of my knife doing enough damage for me to escape.

I throw out a scream of frustration as I wriggle like a fish on a hook.

He’s going to kill me.

I’m going to end up just like Mom.

Is this karma?

Fear drains every last ounce of fight from me as I hear fabric rustle.

No, no, no! This is not happening.

Hot anger swirls through me. I reach behind me, trying to grab him or scratch him. A second later, he has my arms pinned at the small of my back. Fear pushes back my anger, and I’m filled with cold dread.

Can he see the knife?

More importantly, can I reach him with it?

My voice breaks as I yell out, “Let me go!” I wriggle so hard, my hoody falls back and my loose hair spills over my face.

“What the…?” The guy lifts his weight, but only long enough to grab my shoulders and flip me over.

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