Page 62 of Riot's Thorn
A pretty blonde head peeks around the corner, and I drop my hand, stepping to the side to mostly cover the man hanging from a chain.
“Goddamn it, Parker. I told you to stay with Navy,” I growl.
Her wide eyes take in the room, noticing the broken and bloody man hanging from a chain and the tray full of bloody tools, along with this dickhead’s nails, before landing on me. More specifically, my busted-up knuckles.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes out before taking flight. Her feet pound against the wooden treads, and the door slams shut.
“You better fix that.” Killer points with her knife.
With a grunt, I leave her to finish the dirty work. I have a thorn to see to.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
PARKER
Ihave no idea where I’m going; I’m just running.
After sitting at the bar for twenty minutes, I got bored and curious. Navy told me about the hidden door in the pantry while she was giving me a tour. She also warned me to stay clear of it. But I felt a pull, something telling me I needed to see what happened down there. I’m so stupid.
I fly through the kitchen and out the back door. This must be employee parking because there’s nothing special about it. No green oasis in the desert, just an asphalt lot that backs up against a tall brick fence and a couple of dumpsters. My fight or flight didn’t work back at the mansion, but it’s working double time right now as I climb on top of the dumpster and jump onto the brick fence. It’s an eight-foot drop onto dirt and weeds on the other side.
“Parker,” Riot barks, stepping outside.
One quick glance at him has me lowering to my ass and turning my body around as I cling to the fence. There’s a brief moment as I’m hanging off the edge that I doubt myself, but hearing Riot angrily yelling my name again, I let go and fall. My legs collapse under me, and I hit the ground, but I’m uninjured as I stand and brush myself off.
Without thought, I run. Thankfully, it’s just now dusk outside, so I can still mostly see in front of me. It doesn’t even register that night is coming quickly and I could easily get lost. Plus, this is when the bobcats and coyotes come out. I’m the perfect size for a meal.
“You don’t want to do this,” Riot warns from his perch atop the fence, his voice a razor slicing through the air.
His veiled threat only fuels my resolve to leave, so I push my feet to move faster. It’s a foolish decision, I realize, as I glance down at my Converse. They’re not the best running shoes, and they’re low tops, so my ankles are about to get cut up by the Northern Nevada terrain. There’s not a soul or structure in sight, literally nowhere to go, yet my legs propel me onward.
If any thought other than fleeing was in my mind, I’d curse the lack of a sports bra and the discomfort of the relentless bouncing. Add to that the sharp weeds clawing at my ankles and the burrs embedding painfully into my skin as I charge forward, but none of these nuisances register as I pump my arms and drive my feet harder.
I wouldn’t label myself a runner—I actually despise it—yet I grudgingly hit the treadmill a few times a week and have a private Pilates instructor who keeps my body somewhat agile and toned. Despite that, the cellulite and lower belly pooch remain, but I’d rather live with those than starve myself. However, I’m regretting that trade-off now because I doubt I can outrun him.
A primal fear ignites as I hear his boots pounding relentlessly behind me, eliciting a spine-chilling shiver to ripple through me. He’s stronger and faster, so it’s only a matter of time before he captures me. What then? Will I be the next one dangling from the ceiling?
The horrific image of the man flashes brutally in my mind, a sob strangling my throat. He was naked, his body battered tohell, and his face—oh god, his face was a grotesque mess, like pulverized meat, shredded and dripping with blood. If he isn’t dead yet, he will be soon.
Riot closes in on me, and knowing I’m done for, I stop, bending over, hands on my knees. My chest heaves and my lungs burn from the exertion and probably a little from shock. My abrupt stop doesn’t give Riot enough time to slow, and I realize all too late that he’s about to collide with me. One second my feet are planted firmly on the ground, and the next, they’re not.
We’re only in the air for a moment or two, but in that time, Riot has slid one arm around my waist while the other cradles my head. We hit the ground hard, knocking the wind and all thoughts out of me. Not Riot, though. He has the good sense to roll, easing our landing the best he can.
Even when I piss him off, he’s rescuing me, and that pissesmeoff.
Riot rolls off me, spreading his arms out wide. He groans in pain, his eyes squeezed shut, no doubt from the dry dirt our landing kicked up, and I’m still struggling to get air back into my lungs. My hip hurts something fierce, and my legs are more scratched up now than they were before we crashed out, but other than that, I think I’m okay.
Recovering faster than me, he climbs on top of me and pins my wrists above my head. His dark eyes are even more sinister when they’re bloodshot and irritated, but it’s the blood splatter covering his face that makes me wince and turn away. Except his arm is worse off, and a quick glance shows his knuckles are a mess with his blood, that man’s blood, who knows, but it’s repulsive.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he sneers.
“Me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” I choose to focus on his eyes, which are fixed on the ground above my shoulder.
“I told you to stay with Navy. What part of that was unclear?”
Despite his anger, I feel something growing. “You’re getting hard over this?”
“I’m hard every time I’m between your thighs, Little Thorn.” He grinds into me with zero shame. “Now tell me why you disobeyed. You knew why I was coming here and what that entailed.”
