Page 45 of The Last Sanctuary
Dekker swore. “She’s mine.”
“Don’t you worry,” Vaughn said. “She can’t hide forever. You can have her. After we load up our goodies and I get that wolf pelt, you can burn this place to the ground for all I care.”
“Do we all get a pelt?” Rex asked.
“Sure.” Vaughn was quiet for a moment. “That’s a damn fine idea. Imagine us all dressed out in wolf and leopard pelts like ancient Viking warriors. What terror and awe that would inflict on the hearts of our adversaries.”
“Great idea, boss,” Rex said.
“Let me guess, Damien wants the tiger,” Dekker said. He snorted in derision. “You’ll have to grow into that one, boy. You still have to earn your chops. If you’ve got them, that is. Unless you’re too much of a pussy.” His tone was teasing, but something was mocking in the way he spoke.
“Go screw yourself." Damien sounded petulant. “I can take care of myself.”
“Enough sitting around,” Vaughn said. “The night is young! We’ve got work to do. Dekker, get my gun. Damien, get me some more of this beer, and be quick about it.” A chair pushed back, scraping against the tile. Vaughn’s broad back appeared as he shoved the chair into place, tattoos squirming across his neck and bulging arms. “Remember, the white one is mine.”
Heart hammering in her throat, Raven crept back down the hallway to her bedroom, snuck back inside, and shut the door. She stumbled backward. Her stomach roiled in shock and fear. More of them were coming. They were going to take all the food in the storage buildings—the food she was depending on to stay alive.
She should have guessed what they would want. Some part of her had known, but to hear it spoken aloud made it horrifyingly real. And Vaughn was going to kill Luna. He was going to kill her right now, tonight.
She had to get out of there. She needed to think things through somewhere else, somewhere safe. She lurched for the window?—
The bedroom door swung open.
Chapter Nineteen
Liquid fear shot through her veins. Raven dove into the shadows between her dresser and the bed. Hunkering down beneath the window, she made herself as small as possible.
It was a pathetic hiding spot. But without light to illuminate her tiny, shadowy form, she might have the barest chance. As long as she didn’t give herself away, didn’t move or breathe.
Silently, she reached into her pocket for the knife. She had to shift her thighs for access, leaning into the wooden side of the dresser, her body squished. She pulled it out but didn’t dare flick it open. It would make a small snicking sound that might give her away. She grasped the handle with both hands and held it to her chest, her knuckles white, and every muscle taut.
The intruder strode into her bedroom. He was a murky shape among murkier shadows. He shut the door behind him. Aclicksounded as the lock turned. There was a soft thumping sound. Then, silence.
Her lungs burned for oxygen. Her body screamed at her to suck in deep, ragged breaths. But she couldn’t. She breathed shallowly through her nose, fighting against the panic slithering up her throat, squeezing her windpipe.
The intruder was completely silent, except for the sound of breathing. It wasn’t normal steady breaths, but ragged and uneven, like a runner gulping for air. Raucous laughter from the kitchen filtered through the shut door, dim and far away.
What was the intruder doing? Had he spotted her? Did he know she was there? Was it a trap? Perhaps he was waiting for her to make the first move before he pounced. Maybe a gun was pointed at her location right now, just waiting for her to peek her head around the corner.
The anxiety of not knowing wound tighter and tighter inside her ribcage. Her heart felt like it was about to crack wide open.
Seconds that felt like hours stretched longer and longer. From the sound of his rasping breaths, he remained near the door of her bedroom. He hadn’t moved closer to her position.
Anxiety thrummed through her entire body. If death was coming for her, she wasn’t going to die cowering. She wasn’t a coward. Not like her mother.
Gathering every ounce of her courage, she leaned forward a few precious inches and peered past the edge of the dresser.
She blinked, adjusting her eyes. In the dimness of the room, she could just make out a tall, lanky shape on the opposite side of the room. It was Damien. He slumped against the door, head back, his chest heaving. His arms hung loose at his sides, his hands clenched into fists. She couldn’t make out his expression. It looked like his eyes were closed. It was hard to tell.
At any rate, he hadn’t appeared to have spotted her. He wasn’t hunting her. He didn’t have a weapon. A sliver of relief pricked her.
Outside the window, the fog thinned for a moment. The pale shine of moonlight poured through the window, bathing the room in a silvery glow.
Maybe she should have ducked back behind the dresser, stayed hidden. She didn’t.
Damien was just standing there. His chest rose and fell rapidly. There was something haggard and grim in his face. His piercings glinted. As he breathed, his fists gradually unclenched. His tense expression relaxed, and he suddenly looked younger. Young and unburdened, like a caged animal newly released. Like he’d just escaped something terrible.
He was as handsome as she remembered. He didn’t seem dangerous at this moment. She knew better. The rattlesnake lay coiled in the sun, appearing harmless until it struck. The hippopotamus looked fat and lazy but was responsible for more human deaths than crocodiles. The furry slow loris was adorable, but it released toxins from its elbow, one of the only venomous mammals.
