Page 39 of Ash Storm

Her eyes fell on a plate of fruit sitting on a small table. Or rather, to the knife and plate sitting next to the fruit.

She inched towards it.

“I hope you’re not planning on using that on me,” he said without turning towards her. She looked up, surprised. For a moment, she didn’t realize what had changed. Then she realized it was his accent. From the thick, musical way in which he pronounced his words, she’d assumed he was Italian. But now, he sounded … as American as her.

Never mind that.

Focus, Reka.

Grab the knife.

If this was the end, she realized she would rather die fighting than go meekly.

She took the last step and grabbed the knife, holding it in front of her—held it in her right hand, then, when she saw how badly it was shaking, wrapped her left hand around it to steady it.

The man strolled towards her almost casually. He reminded her of a lion stalking its prey.

And she realized the futility of her situation. She was waving a bread knife at a man who’d just beaten three other men half to death with his fists.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said, waving the knife in the air. “I know how to use this.”

She’d intended it to sound like a threat, but it came out more like a whimper.

The man’s lips curled up in a small smile. He raised his hands in a placating manner—then he charged. He was on her in an instant, one large hand wrapped around her hands and the knife, the other one grabbing onto her ass, lifting her. He slammed her against the far wall. Except it didn’t hurt, because his arm was behind her, cushioning the blow.

His chest pressed hard against hers.

The knife clattered uselessly to the ground.

He leaned down so his mouth was against her ear.

“No,” she begged, wriggling in place, unable to push him even an inch. “Please. No.”

She sucked in a breath, then spit at him. She’d aimed for his eyes, but her spit landed on his cheek instead, rolled down his face slowly, since he made no attempt to clean it up.

“There are no bugs in the room,” he whispered urgently. “They can’t hear what we’re saying. But there’s a camera behind me, in the corner, and another one in the bathroom. So they can see us.”

Reka’s mind shook. She had to rewind his words to get them to make sense.

“What?”

His hands grabbed on to the sides of her head, as if holding her in place, except he was exerting no real pressure. His large hands were just—there—holding her so gently. And right now, she fucking needed gentle.

She took in a deep breath to steady herself, and her nostrils filled with his scent. He smelled clean and … safe.

Safe?

She knew the human mind and body could only take so much. She wondered if this was the moment her mind had decided to fracture.

And her mind did feel kind of fuzzy—like fruit forgotten for weeks at the bottom of the fruit bowl.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, still keeping her flat against the wall.

And she wondered if this was all some kind of trick he was playing—reminded herself this was the same man who, just minutes earlier, had asked for something to gag her with.

What if that’s what turns him on?

There was only one thing to do. Reka lifted her knee, catching him right between the legs.