She felt him shift, straddle her and then, his lips finding hers, he pushed her knees apart and came into her, thrusting deep, pushing hard, creating a swirling, consuming heat. Eyes locked with his, she met each of his hard thrusts with her own. Watched in fascination as he loved her, pushing harder, faster, harder, faster, harder, faster until with a gasp she convulsed again. Every muscle in her body jerked. She closed her eyes as her mind spun crazily. Travis stiffened, his cry ragged and hoarse. “Shannon,” he whispered and fell atop her.
Pain rocketed down her side. Sharp, biting pain. She bit back the urge to cry out, but he understood, rolled quickly to his side. “Sorry,” he said, pulling her close to him. “You okay?”
“Mmm.” The pain in her ribs subsided and even if it hadn’t, she wouldn’t have cared.
“You’re sure?” he asked, concern evident in his voice.
“Yes, cowboy…I’m sure.” Closing her eyes, she felt his breath on her hair. Snuggling nearer to him, wrapped in the smell of sex and musk, this man in her bed, she thought fleetingly that she’d never fall asleep, that she was too jangled, too keyed up.
She was wrong.
Exhaustion took its toll.
With Travis Settler’s arms wrapped firmly around her, she drifted off.
Chapter 27
The kid was gone!
He couldn’t believe it. Reeling through the tiny rooms, he searched, looking in every possible hiding place. Closets, cupboards, any little hidey hole. Nothing! He double-checked.
She was just plain gone.
He swore in frustration. No! This couldn’t happen. Not now!
The damned cabin was empty, the door to her room open wide.
Shit, hadn’t he locked it? Yeah, he remembered double-checking the latch, just as he always did. But somehow she’d wormed her way out of her prison.
“Fuck!” Despite all his best efforts that little bitch had managed to escape! Ungrateful kid. He stormed into her room again, shined his flashlight over the fl
oor and dirty blankets, then kicked a pillow across the room. The thin fabric gave way as the pillow crashed into the wall. Old feathers flew, making a damned blizzard of white down. “Son of a bitch!” He threw down the flashlight as a dull roar started somewhere in the back of his head, like the sound of the surf. Raking his hands through his hair, he felt the fury start deep inside, a white-hot heat boiling up until his vision narrowed into blackness. He couldn’t lose her! Couldn’t! She was the key to his entire plan.
The bait.
Rage burned in his gut.
Because of her, he couldn’t revel in the satisfaction of Oliver’s death. He should have had the luxury to savor the killing, to replay the moment Oliver, kneeling in the church and absorbed in a pathetic prayer, had felt the rough fibers of the rope slide around his neck, had turned his head quickly to meet his killer’s gaze.
There had been a moment of recognition.
Of understanding.
And acceptance.
Almost as if the would-be priest had expected to die.
Almost welcomed it.
The Beast sneered, remembering how he’d yanked on the noose, dragged a flailing, suddenly desperate-to-live man through the church. Choking, gasping, clawing at the thick rope surrounding his neck, Oliver had decided life was better than death.
Things had changed, though. Oliver had passed out before the Beast had hauled him down the stairs to the basement. Now he remembered carrying Oliver’s limp body down the rickety steps. Once in the basement, he’d dropped Oliver onto the floor. It had taken a few minutes to set the stage. He’d tossed the old rope over an exposed beam that had once been used to ring the church bells, then pulled Oliver to his feet, setting him on a folding chair below the beam. When Oliver finally awoke, he would see what was happening, watch in terror as the fire was lit into the form of a star missing a few spokes. Then he’d feel some kind of weird pain and look down to see his own blood drizzling to the floor to pool beneath the chair. Oliver would panic, meet the Beast’s eyes as the chair was kicked out from under him, and realize that his soul was going straight to hell. That was the plan.
But Oliver hadn’t reacted as he’d hoped. Hadn’t squirmed and flailed, hadn’t clawed at his neck again, nor scrabbled for his life. It was as if in the brief time he was unconscious, he’d found acceptance…even absolution.
Oliver had opened his eyes and seeing the flames growing and crawling over the sticks, rope and rags surrounding him, knowing he was bleeding from his wrists, he’d met the Beast’s gaze, smiled, and before the Beast could react, calmly stepped off the chair and kicked it backward. The metal chair had clattered noisily to the cement floor as Oliver had hung himself calmly and quietly. It had been as if Oliver had been ready for death. No, not quite right, as if he’d fucking embraced death.
That part had been unexpected.