Page 186 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

I’m in the lead. I’m even sixty-percent sure I’m headed the right way. I can’t hear the guy’s footsteps anymore—just my own ragged breath. I discover a faint path and immediately follow it. A few minutes later, a definite track appears through the foliage.

My fear subsides; I’m headed toward civilization and away from that guy’s massive hands and shadowy face.

I pause, glancing this way and that to make sure I’m well and truly alone.

Holy crap, that was a close call.

I run my hands through my hair and then drag my fingers down my face.

I guess it’s time I started listening to people, right? I mean, yeah, my life sucks right now, but I just got a wakeup call like no other. Because anything—evenwonderfulGranny Marigold—isbetter than being gutted in an abandoned church in the middle of?—

Hands grab me, jerk me off my feet.

I scream. Fingers cover my mouth, cutting off the sound.

He drags me backward before I can recover my balance. A gust of wind drives against him, bringing me his smell as he drags me off the path.

Crisp aftershave. Sweat. The mintiness of fresh mouthwash.

What the fuck? Killers aren’t supposed to smell good!

I struggle, land an elbow in his washboard stomach, and completely fail to break free.

I guess he’s not taking any chances this time. As soon as we’re well and truly in the shadows, he pins the front of my body against a broad tree trunk and leans into me. He’s powerful—even pushing against the trunk with everything I’ve got, I barely rock him.

He grabs my wrists and locks my hands against the bark above my head, leaving the other free to roam.

“Bad decision, angel,” he murmurs into my ear.

Angel?

A sudden swell of anger leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I struggle furiously, but all he does it press harder into me. Then he grabs the scruff of my neck. “You made me angry, having to chase after you.”

“Yeah?” I snap. “Sounds more like you’re out of breath.”

It’s the pent-up rage inside me talking, of course. He struck a nerve. Mom used to call me her little angel. What the fuck gives him the right to call me that?

When he laughs, his chest vibrates against my shoulders. His hand slides down my side as if he’s trying to frisk me for more knives. And don’t I fucking wish I had more?

“Chasing a little thing like you? Please.”

“Fuck you,” I mutter, wriggling furiously under him.

“Yeah, keep struggling,” he murmurs into my ear, his warm breath tickling my skin. “It’s getting me hard.”

“You fucking sicko, get off!”

“Oh, I’m planning on it.” His hand glides over my ass and dives between my legs.

I go stiff, my eyes squeezing shut as he brushes against my pussy. There’s a lot of fabric in the way—I didn’t bother trying on these jeans before I bought them, so they’re super baggy—but still his fingers manage to make contact with my clit.

A dark thrill chases through me.

Then a whimper tumbles out of my mouth, timed perfectly with the ring of a mobile phone.

He ignores it, and it goes silent after a few rings.

“Not such a big shot now, are you, angel?” He presses into me at a different angle, and it takes me a second to realize why.

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