Linda Howard - Death Angel

A hard hand clamped over her mouth while an arm passed around her waist and jerked her back against a body so hard the impact actually hurt her. She hadn’t heard a whisper of sound, felt a rush of air, literally nothing to warn her. He was just suddenly there, behind her, and the blood rushed from her head as he whispered, “Drea.”

THICK GRAY FOG CLOUDED HER MIND, PUSHING OUT ALL rational thought. She reacted like a wild animal, hurling herself backward with all her strength, trying to knock him off balance, dislodge the hand that was over her mouth so she could scream, anything to escape. Sobbing wildly, she arched and kicked, clawed, slung her elbows, jerked her head back trying to catch him on the mouth or jaw, none of her efforts coordinated or planned; every move was made by sheer instinct, a rabbit trying to escape the jaws of the wolf. She could hear him saying something, but nothing after that first utterance of her name made any sense at all, or was even recognizable as words.

The darkness was overwhelming, both in the kitchen and in her mind. She knew she’d left the lamp on in the living room but no light seemed to penetrate this far; her terror blinded her to everything except the need to fight, to get away. Somehow, somehow, her desperation lending her strength, she managed to tear herself partly from his grasp. She was off balance, disoriented; when all of her weight abruptly shifted to one side she couldn’t get her feet under her and she fell, somehow getting tangled in one of the kitchen chairs before crashing to the floor. The chair overturned and went sliding; she rolled, trying to scramble to her feet, trying to scream, but she didn’t have enough air in her constricted lungs, and all she could do was make a small bleating noise.

He was on her like a panther, his weight bearing down on her, flattening her to the floor again. Once more his hand clamped over her mouth. She jerked her head, trying to open her mouth and bite him, anything to get free of his iron grip. At the first scrape of her teeth he tightened his fingers on her jaw, applying pressure to a sensitive point that made pain explode through her head.

Even though the pain was almost paralyzing she tried to fight. When she tried to punch him in the head he shifted so his elbows pressed down on her arms, pinning them down. Desperately she wiggled, trying to pull her legs up between them so she could use the power of her thigh muscles to shove him up and away. With a quick swivel of his hips he wedged one of his knees between hers and shoved it to the side; another swivel and he had both legs between hers, shifting his weight from first one side to the other as he slid his knees upward, lifting and spreading her legs until her thighs were helplessly draped across his while his heavy torso held her down.

Horrified, she realized he was aroused; his erection, trapped by his pants, rode painfully against her pubic bone. He shifted, just a little, easing himself downward so he was no longer hurting her there, but she preferred the pain to the feel of that thick bulge riding her as if he were trying to enter her through the fabric of her pants. Dear God, was he going to rape her, too?

She couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear that he should hurt her that way. Of all the men she’d ever met, only he had actually touched her, had moved so effortlessly past all her protective barriers that he’d broken a heart she would have sworn was untouchable. He’d taught her differently, taught her the hard way that she wasn’t as impervious as she’d deluded herself into thinking. Knowing he’d been hired to kill her was tough enough, so tough she had broken down to the point that she lost control, but somehow rape was worse, showing not just a lack of feeling but a total sense of contempt. She would rather he kill her outright.

Her futile struggling slowly diminished, and her useless attempts to scream turned into choked sobs. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, ran down her temples into her hair. She couldn’t bear to look at him, couldn’t bear to see his face even if drenching tears had allowed it, so she squeezed her eyes as tightly shut as she could.

And, in that first moment of stillness, heard the deep murmur of his voice. “I won’t hurt you,” he said, his lips moving against her ear. “Drea, be still. I won’t hurt you. I’ll never hurt you.”

At first the words were as incomprehensible as they had been originally, and even when she finally understood the words she couldn’t grasp their meaning. He wouldn’t hurt her? Did that mean he was going to painlessly kill her? That she wouldn’t suffer?

Big of him.

Anger, life-saving anger, surged through the pain and terror and she somehow lunged one more time, wrenching her head to the side and sinking her teeth into any part of him she could reach, which happened to be the side of his forearm, just past his thick wrist. The hot, metallic taste of blood exploded in her mouth, as if she’d bitten into a penny. He said “Fuck!” in a strained tone, forcing the word between his clenched teeth, and with his other hand he applied pressure to those points in her jaw again. Despite herself her jaw loosened, and he pulled his arm from between her teeth.

“Do me a favor,” he muttered. “If you feel you just have to hurt me somehow, punch me in the eye instead of biting me. At least then I won’t need a tetanus shot.”

Her eyes popped open and she glared at him in outrage. He glared back at her from a distance of about ten inches, just far enough that she couldn’t head butt him, at least not with her limited range of motion. Despite her earlier impression of utter darkness, the kitchen wasn’t completely dark; the light from the living room made a dim, mellow swath across the linoleum floor, let her see the strong shadowed planes of his face and the glitter of his darkly brilliant eyes.

Silence stretched between them, taut and heated. After a moment he drew a slow, controlled breath and let it out the same way. “Can you listen to me now?” he finally asked. “Or do I have tie you down and gag you?”

Surprise sparked through her, and she stared at him in confusion. If he was going to kill her, he could just do it, he didn’t have to tie her down and gag her. He’d won; she was at his mercy-if he had any, that is.

Could he have meant…had he possibly meant that he wasn’t going to kill her, period?

He hadn’t had to jump her, she realized. He could have shot her at any time, if killing her had been his purpose. She had operated for so long under the assumption that he intended to do exactly that, that she felt as if the ground had evaporated beneath her. If what she’d thought was reality wasn’t real at all, then what the hell was?

If his hand hadn’t been over her mouth, her jaw would have fallen open. Slowly, carefully, her movements hampered by his grip, she first nodded her head, once, up and down, then just as slowly shook it.

Taking the movements exactly for what they were, her answers to his questions, in order, he said, “Then pay attention. I’m not going to hurt you in any way. Is that clear? Do you understand?”

She nodded again, the motion just as restricted as it had been the first time. He hadn’t relaxed his grip one iota.

“All right. I’m going to let you up now. Do you need help?”

She shook her head, though she honestly didn’t know. Slowly he released her, massaging the pressure points in her jaws as he did so, easing her through what could have been a spike of agony. He rolled lithely to a crouching motion and slid an arm behind her shoulders, lifting her to a sitting position.

Completely stunned, Andie sat silently on the floor. After supporting her for a moment he asked, “All right?” When she nodded, he stood in that graceful, controlled way of his and went to the sink, turning on the water and holding his arm under the flow. “Turn on the light,” he said, not looking at her.