Page 41 of Savage Sin

I turn my attention back to the three men. I was right about the porch. It encircles the entire cabin. I watch as they walk the perimeter, looking into the windows. From the cargo shorts and t-shirts and the lack of weapons, I know none of them are enforcers for my family.

Another five minutes and they give up. I watch as they disappear down what might be a path I can take out of here. I wait another five minutes before I slide the back door open, but I’m too late.

The rumble of a motor has me slinking back into the shadows just in time to miss a pair of high beams tearing through the living room.

I look around for anything I can use as a weapon, but I’m too late. Keys rattle in the door. It’s now or never.

I leap and grab two fistfuls of hair.

Unfortunately, jumping on a thrashing bear isn’t a good idea. Glass breaks and a string of Russian pours into the blackened living room. The two bags at his feet get trampled as he stumbles left and then right.

“You think you’re going to chop me up and stuff me in a bag?”

Books fall from a nearby case, frames from the wall and a couple of lamps all create an obstacle course as tries to dislodge me from his back. For several seconds, it’s like I’m a champion bull rider going for a golden buckle. I dig in deeper, hook my ankles, and latch onto all that pretty blonde hair of his. It’s thick and soft, just like I thought it would be. I pull harder and he swings, trying to dislodge me.

Strong fingers latch onto my upper arms and my luck runs out. One hard tug and I’m over his shoulder and being tossed onto a couch in seconds. The ride is over and I have no prize to show for my efforts.

But I have one pissed off bull breathing heavily through his nostrils. Only that grin on his face looks more like a wolf’s.

Run! Scream for help!Maybe those men from earlier would hear her and call the police.

No. On second thought, they could help Rage, and that is the last thing I need.

He tilts his head in a way that makes me feel like I’m the hunted. Eyes laser focused. Muscles coiled and ready. I go left and he’ll have me. Right is a dead end at a brick wall.

I never considered myself very athletic. Some days I surprise myself though. Leaping six feet over the back of a couch, I take out two table lamps, a stack of books and some fruity smelling candles he probably uses to find his zen moment on the weekends. When he’s not kidnapping young women, that is. It all tumbles to the hardwood floor and some of the finer glass arrangements I didn’t care to sacrifice time to appreciate earlier shatter as they fall.

He’s on me in two strides. So much for a new career in the Olympics. Arms like steel bands come around my middle and I’m hauled back against a hard chest that might as well be a brick wall.

“Easy, Persi,” he murmurs in my ear. “Remember those stitches.”

How can I forget? They have my eyes crossing. But I’m not going to let him know that. Dropping my weight forward, I use momentum and his counter weight in my favor to drive the back of my head into his nose.

“Whoa, easy now. Damn,hermosa, are you trying to hurt me or yourself?”

He dodges in time to miss a broken nose, but I caught him on the jaw. I lift my feet, thrash and wiggle. Nothing. His hold on me hasn’t slipped an inch.

His chuckle is deep, low and like smoke over a forest floor. And just as deadly. His nose is at the base of my neck and he slowly inhales as he kisses and nibbles his way up to my ear. “I see you found the lavender and vanilla body soap,” he moans hungrily. I kick and wiggle so hard he either has to let go of me or topple to the floor with me. Hardwood flooring and my knees do not mix.

“Damn it, Persi. I told you to be careful. I didn’t spend a week worrying over you for you to bust yourself up.” There’s actually worry in his tone.

What he should be worried about is me getting a hold of his guns from his shoulder holsters.

I grab the nickel-plated handle of one, tuck low and scurry over the couch through what smells like wet dirt and what I think is spilled essential oil. I sniff and yeah…honey. Someone needs to turn a light on.

Two sharp smacks and the living room floods with light. I look down to find myself covered in dirt like my thoughts work like magic.

“Who the fuck still has clap on lights?”

My eyes dart to the danger in the room instantly. Rage stands several feet away, his arms crossed over his chest. White cotton looks good over the top of all that dark muscle and colorful ink. “You’ll need to talk to Justice for that answer. Probably came with the cabin.”

Justice?

I aim for his heart. “How about we skip asking questions and you pass me the keys to your truck, madman? Don’t mistake that for a question.”

My chest heaves and I push to my feet with a lot of effort. “Don’t come another step closer.” I have close to zero bargaining power here. Just my grit and sheer willpower.

And now a gun. It will have to do a lot of the talking for me.

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