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Silently I prayed that he didn’t see me. But I was right there, in the middle of the doorway. No cover, no shadow, nothing to hide behind. All I could do was stay utterly still, hoping it would somehow make me invisible.
Then he took a step toward me…
And I screamed.
CRASH!
The kitchen’s rear window exploded outward as the man was flung backwards and straight through it. And then I saw him: a second man, rushing past me with blinding speed. Flying through the kitchen so fast I couldn’t even follow his movement. Flinging himself — his entire body — straight into the midsection of my would-be attacker.
It was both men who crashed through the window. Both men who were in the backyard right now, writhing in the grass, wrestling and escaping and struggling to gain power and position over the other.
Lightning flashed. I saw the glint of steel, and the razor edge of a knife…
I rushed forward until I was at the broken window, still partially in shock. Sheets of rain crashed over me, waking me up just in time to see one man take off running…
… and the other followed.
Up the hill they went, out into the open, bolting for the edge of the property. They were both incredibly fast. Moving with such absurd levels of speed and agility, I knew in an instant they’d both been trained to do this.
I heard cries. Grunts. Thunder and rain. Someone screamed — a man’s scream this time — and there was another flash of lightning.
For a full minute I saw nothing. Then, from out the darkness, I could see someone stomping back down the hill.
I retreated slowly, keeping my eyes on the man as he approached. He moved methodically. With purpose.
You should be running!
I watched as he reached the house. Vaulted through the open window…
You should be calling for help!
He stood in the kitchen now, soaking wet, his boots all covered in mud. He wore sleek black pants. A shirt so torn to shreds he pulled it off, bunched it up, and began mopping himself dry with it.
In his free hand, I noticed he held a knife. It was jagged. Wicked-looking. Deadly.
And it was dripping blood.
Still… I knew this man. I knew his eyes, his cheekbones, the curve of his strong nose. The line of his squared-off jaw…
I squinted hard, then gasped. I knew him from the pictures. The photos I’d been shown of Kyle and Dakota and Ryan and—
“Briggs…”
Forty-Three
SAMMARA
Another bolt of lighting
illuminated the kitchen. It also illuminated him.
In that instant I saw everything; the dark hair, the devilish face, the two bronze shoulders tapering down to strong, capable arms. Briggs wasn’t just covered in rain, he was covered in blood too. Even in the shadows it looked slick and wet, like someone had splashed him with dark, liquid chocolate.
I looked at him like I was seeing a ghost. Eventually his eyes softened with recognition, and he dropped the knife.
“Sammara.”
His voice was as dominating as his presence. For a second I just stood there, trembling uncontrollably. Then I rushed over and flung myself against him, desperate for human contact.
