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“Ohhhh.” She gripped him on the next thrust, making sure he felt the minute shudders of her own climax. And Rafe, unused to such sensations, made an involuntary-sounding grunt before coming inside her with a violent shudder, causing a rush of pulsing heat that she felt deep inside her body. She saw his hand unclench as he pulled out and their commingled juices dripped down her bare thighs; in an attempt to hold himself back, he’d been digging his nails into his palm so hard that he’d left bloody crescents. “Shit,” she whispered, staring at his wounded hand.
“You—” he began, in an ominous tone, but then he broke off as something shattered downstairs. There was a thick, heavy silence. “Is your dog downstairs?”
“N-no.” Her voice sounded small. “I put her in my room.”
Rafe was already shrugging out of his jacket. “Put that on and stay here,” he said, balling it at her, before reaching down to pull up his jeans. “If I don’t come back or if you hear me yell or cry out, call the police. Immediately. My cell phone’s in the righthand pocket.”
She watched him flick out the switchblade. “What if they have a gun?”
“Stay,” he said, pointing the knife at her before slipping out the door.
As if she were a dog. Wasn’t that just typical? One fuck and they thought they owned you. She zipped up his jacket and yanked down her skirt, swirling it around so that the hem was straight. Not that a burglar would give a shit if her skirt were the right way around.I’m hysterical, she thought, struggling to control her breathing as she crept into the hall.
It was dark but she heard the tinkle of more broken glass downstairs, followed by a crash and a clotted-sounding snarl that didn’t sound human. Her heartbeat kicked up another notch as she envisioned hazily-defined horrors, most of them involving shady monsters and men in masks.
She gripped the hard edge of Rafe’s cell phone. She was at the stairs now. She peered over the rail—and gasped. Half of Marco’s precious glass-topped bar was bashed in, the old issues of dirty magazines spilling out of the broken shards, their pages shredded and crumpled.
Rafe was half bent-over, his white T-shirt glowing spectrally in the dim light. He was gripping the still-intact part of the counter, his hand leaving bloody smears on the glass. In his other hand was a fire poker, as he faced off against—
Jesus Christ, what was that? Was that a wolf?
A fuckingwolfin her living room?
“Shit,” she breathed, and her knees quaked. Dolly, the female husky on the set ofRabid, had been terrifying because of her size. But she was friendly—too friendly for the sick games that Johnathan had used her to play. But this creature didn’t look friendly at all. It looked like a monster. There was something wrong with it, too. It was painfully thin, with bare patches of skin throwing through where the fur had sloughed away. And there was a filmy gleam in its yellow eyes as it snapped and slavered inches away from Rafe’s denim-covered thigh, scattering white flecks of foam.
She didn’t realize a sound had escaped her until the dog-wolf’s ears pricked and it turned its head towards her, as if scenting her, before barreling towards the stairs at full speed.
To tear me apart, she thought wildly, swaying with fear.
“Run, Donni!” she heard Rafe cry.
But her legs were already pumping.Shit, shit, shit, she thought, nearly sobbing in fear. This was just like her film. She’d hated that film, but this was worse, because it wasreal.
She hurled herself into the master bedroom and slammed the door shut hard enough to rattle the glass case of Marco’s stuffed shark. Seconds later, she heard a thud, followed by a snarl. Claws scratched against the wood, peeling the paint off in curls of ribbon that fell to the carpet. She could see the dog-wolf’s shadow moving in the gap beneath the door, trying to figure out how to get in.
From her bedroom, she heard a whine, followed by a howl.
Powderpuff.
Oh, God. Her dog. Had she closed her bedroom door?
The dog-wolf snarled again, its shadow turning from the door as it slinked further down the hall. Donni looked around wildly and grabbed the chair to Marco’s old escritoire before swinging the door open and leaving, chair-first. The dog-wolf was indeed prowling towards her bedroom, where Powderpuff’s increasingly terrified whimpers were filling the hall.
The door was closed, but not fully. If it slammed against it the way it had against the door to the master bedroom, it was going to fly wide open.
“Get away from myfuckingdog!” Donni screamed, ramming the dog-wolf in the side with all four legs of the chair. The creature yelped and went rolling down the carpet in a mangy tangle of paws and tail, before skittering back to its feet and shaking herself.
A snarl revved through its throat like a chainsaw and then it lunged—faster than she expected. She gave it another whack with the chair and its jaw closed over one of the legs. There was a loud, splintering snap, and then, just like that, she was holding a three-legged chair.
“Oh shit,” she choked, when its yellow eyes rolled towards her with crazed rage.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. “I told you to stay in the fucking bedroom.”
“It was going to eat mydog,” she sobbed.
The dog-wolf looked between the two of them, spit-covered wood chunks falling from its working jaw. This close, she could see how filthy and matted it really was. It looked unhealthy, starved, and possibly abused, if those raw welts on its flesh were any indication.
“It’s looking right at me,” she said nervously, backing up with the chair towards him.
