Page 12 of Playing with Fyre

A tear flashes down my cheek and tickles its way over the back of my hand.

The intruder steps into my bedroom.

And then he closes the door behind him.

* * *

It’swhen he’s standing less than two feet away from the bed that I smell it. Rich, metallic. It fills my bedroom like an expensive perfume.

Blood.

That scent, so strong I can taste it in the back of my throat, whips my frantic mind into a frenzy. I lash out with the knife, screaming hoarsely. The man steps back with demonic calm, the blade whisking as it brushes his pants. And then he brings his shoe down on the back of my hand, crushing my bones. My hoarse yell disintegrates into a pathetic whimper as I fight through the pain.

He wrenches the knife from my unresisting fingers, reaches under the bed, and grabs a fistful of my hair. My lungs claw for air as he hauls me out with that grip alone, but before I have enough for a new scream, he spins me around and shoves me against the wall.

Lights flash and dance in the darkness of my room.

The smell of blood lies thick in the air.

Something cold and hard touches my throat. The flat of the knife—not the edge. A warning. Just a twist of his hand and my throat is sliced.

It’s too dark in here to make out anything but his shape, but I know he’s big.

My frantic mind conjures up the only person I know who could logically be standing here in the middle of the night with a knife to my throat…and my bladder releases a rush of warm urine down the inside of my thighs.

Peter Monroe.

An architect, once. But something had happened in his life. Something triggered a change in him. That led Peter to start work on a top-secret project at his lake house out in the Waspwood forest. When he was done, he had a secret cavity no one knew about, that no house plans would ever show and no one—especially his victims—would ever be able to escape from.

I was victim number three.

They still haven’t found the bodies of the other two girls he kidnapped, even though they searched every inch of his land for their graves.

It’s him holding me against the wall. It must be. And that blood I smell in the air? Could only be the blood of another hapless victim. He’s come to finish the job, to make sure I can never testify against him if some kind of miracle made that possible.

I’m convinced of all of this right up to the point where Peter dips his head and presses his lips to mine.

Chapter Seven

Charlotte

The kiss is brief, rough. Like the intruder is claiming my mouth before he claims my body. I know it’s not Peter—he never once tried to kiss me—but I don’t have the bandwidth to try and figure out who the hell he is. Not now. I’m too busy struggling, too busy trying to save my life. But every elbow jab I get in, every nail scratch, every sloppy punch only seems to spur him on even more.

He doesn’t care that I’ve pissed myself. He grips me, squeezes me right through that wet fabric. Maybe it even turns him on, because the sound he makes when he massages my pussy through my clothes is urgent and fierce.

He yanks down my pajama bottoms and shoves his knee between my legs, leaving me bare and exposed. Only then does he pause. My eyes are squeezed closed, so I don’t know if he’s looking down there or watching my face.

I don’t want to know. He’s too powerful, so there’s only one way this ends, and that’s all I’m praying for now.

For this to end.

His breath is warm and sweet on my face, and intensifies as he comes closer. He searches out my mouth with his again, bruising my lips with another violent kiss.

Then it hits me. I must have slipped off to sleep. I’m dreaming.

They’ve been happening more often these days, these darkly erotic dreams. They’re never this vivid…but that’s because I’m remembering them after I’ve woken up. But I’minone right now, aren’t I? Experiencing itrightnow. When you’re inside a dream, it’s all there is. It’s your entire world. So it feels just like real life, doesn’t it?

And if this is a dream, then this intruder can be anyone I want him to be.

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