Jory Strong: Healer's Choice

“Perhaps I’d better make sure I didn’t miss anything,” he said, crouching down and quickly going through her clothing, finding the Wainwright token. “Ah, good thing I checked.”

He tossed the garments from the room then stood. “Now then, here’s the scene I’ve arranged for you. In a moment I will escort you to the bed and retie you there, leaving enough slack in the rope to allow movement on your part. I will then place the knife at the end of the mattress.

“If you’re careful, and even remotely coordinated, rather than kick it off the bed you should be able to use your feet and body to work it upward, toward your hands. How you approach cutting through the bindings at your wrists, I’ll leave up to you.

“If you work quickly, you should be free before your visitor arrives. If not . . . well the failure is yours. Our rules were honored and you were given a chance to save yourself.”

This time Rebekka didn’t fight him. She went docilely, lying down as directed and trying to blank her mind to his presence, to the possibility he’d rape her before he left.

When he was finished arranging the scene to his liking, he caressed her cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “I’m looking forward to seeing just what your choice will be. Your gift. Or your life. Assuming of course, you free yourself first and manage to maneuver into a position where you can use the knife against your guest.”

Icy numbness replaced a terror that couldn’t be sustained any longer. But it didn’t suppress Rebekka’s will to live. Even as he left the room, his footsteps sounding in the hallway, she was working the knife upward, losing all track of time as she raced to free herself.

Slashes soon marked her forearms where she’d cut herself on the knife’s blade. And by the time the bloodstained rope fell away from her wrists, her skin was slick with sweat.

Rebekka rushed from the room, anxious to get away from the bed, though she knew it didn’t matter. A lifetime of witnessing how closely knit violence and sexual satisfaction were for some had demonstrated how unimportant comfort was when it came to sating those needs.

The shredded remains of her clothing no longer lay in the hallway. Like cold, merciless eyes, she was aware of the cameras capturing her nakedness, her every movement, and what might be the last minutes and hours of her life—all for the twisted, sick entertainment of others.

She considered returning to the kitchen and taking a skillet but discarded the idea. Effectively wielding it in one hand and the knife in the other would be impossible.

Her throat closed on the icy horror of the choice confronting her. When it came to what it would cost her, there would be no difference between injuring the man coming here or killing him.

Tears formed, unwanted but unstoppable. They fell as she heard the Bear ancestor’s voice in her mind, saying as long as her gift remained untainted, she had the power to fully restore Were souls.

Was it better to die than live without being able to use her gift? For so long, it was how she’d defined herself.

The final scene with Aryck played out in her mind, the choice she’d made then, sacrificing the role of mother and mate for that of healer.

I can have that kind of life with someone else , she told herself, though a part of her doubted she could ever trust another man enough to open her heart to him.

She brushed away the tears and steeled herself against shedding more of them. First she had to survive long enough to escape.

The door was locked, as she expected it to be. From there she moved into the living room to look out the window.

She tried to think as her attacker would. To consider what he would expect, how his own nervousness and excitement and fear might be used to her advantage.

Would he be told she was one of the gifted? Would he expect pleading and discount the potential for violence?

A hot wash of bile crawled up her throat as she imagined his thoughts, his feelings, his desire to rape a woman then kill her afterward. Her heart felt as though it would leap out of her chest when she heard the sound of a motorcycle.

Through the window she saw it approach, the masked man driving while another, younger and barefaced, rode in the sidecar. They slowed to a stop, though the driver didn’t turn off the engine or dismount.

The club prospect got out of the sidecar. He stood next to it, body vibrating with excitement as he listened to the other man give final instructions, or remind him of the rules.

Rebekka’s mind raced, panic getting the better of her, freezing her at the window until she saw the driver lift his arms and remove the velvet ribbon with the key on it, passing it to the younger man.

She hurried to the stairs then, climbed just far enough to gain momentum, knowing she couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t falter. Surprise was her greatest weapon. Her only chance lay in a quick, unexpected strike, one deep enough to sever an artery.

Outside the sound of the motorcycle engine grew fainter as it drove away. Her would-be rapist and murderer entered the house cautiously, as she’d expected him to.

He reached the foot of the staircase, eyes going to the knife, her grip on it so tight her fingers paled against the dark hilt. There was no need to feign fear, to force it into her voice. “Please don’t do this,” she said, taking a step back as if she intended retreat. “I’m a healer.”

A sneer formed when his gaze moved to the tattoo. His body telegraphed his intention to charge a heartbeat before he did it.

Rebekka leapt forward with only one thought, one emotion. To do whatever it took to survive.

They collided. The knife held low, already thrusting forward between his thighs, her knowledge of anatomy making her accurate.

His expression went from surprise to shock to terrified understanding in the instant before he grabbed her, pushing her away from him instead of to the ground beneath him. Blood already soaking his pants.

He tried desperately to staunch the flow. But it pulsed through his fingers with the pounding of his heart.

“Please, help me,” he begged. “Please. My family has money. They can make you rich.”

Rebekka stood motionless, watching in frozen, sickened horror as he bled out, his panic growing and his pleading little more than sobbing at the end.

Despite knowing there was no other choice, that he intended far worse for her, she threw up when he ceased breathing. Continued to retch until the instinct for survival kicked in, urging her to get out of the house, to get as far away from it as quickly as possible, before the man wearing the mask arrived.

She liberated the key. A shudder went through her at the thought of wearing the dead man’s shirt, but without it she’d be naked.

It took effort to get it off him. She was panting, hearing the phantom approach of a motorcycle by the time she escaped the house and ran for the forest, seeking refuge in the thick press of trees so anyone who pursued her would have to be on foot.

UNSEEN, Tir watched as Levi approached the Iberá estate. Days ago thoughts of retribution would have dominated; now he found irony at events playing out here, between a family that had once paid coin to purchase him and prolong his enslavement, and a Were who’d left him free but shackled by chains in the woods.

Behind the high, gated walls of the compound, lions began roaring as if scenting a being who could take their form. On the walkway along the top, men stopped patrolling and pointed automatic weapons down at Levi as others emerged from the gatehouse with pistols drawn, witch-amulets glowing in the presence of a Were.

“What brings you here?” one of them asked, his eyes going to Levi then skittering away, searching the area behind him as if fearing a surprise attack.