Primal Instinct (25 page)

T
aylor sat up in bed, pulling the sheet around her. Something had pulled her from sleep, and she flung an arm out, only to discover that Colt's side of the bed was empty. She turned on the bedside lamp, pushing her hair out of her face as she listened for running water, for the toilet flushing. Maybe he'd had one of the nightmares he'd told her about, and he'd gone into the living room to watch TV for a bit.

But his gun was gone. Her chest tightened, and cold sweat broke out on her palms and feet. Why would he have—

The alarm began to shriek, and seconds later, Ronald Baker—the man from the bar, the man who'd sent her flowers, the man who'd stalked and spied on her—walked into the bedroom.

With a small flick of his wrist, he locked the bedroom door and leaned against it, a smug smile on his face, his arms crossed over his chest.

Oh, God, where was Colt? What had Baker done to him? With a sickening lurch, her brain scrambled as she tried to figure out what to do.

Willing herself to stay calm, she smiled weakly while adjusting the sheet around her, keenly aware of her nakedness and trying desperately not to give any indication of how scared she was. The last thing she wanted to do was antagonize him. Her mind flashed back to the bar, to how quickly he'd become agitated.

“Ronald, baby,” she purred, biting her lip coyly. “You're not supposed to be here.” She feigned surprise, her eyes wide. His eyes skated up and down her body, and a wave of nausea rocked her. She swallowed, dots pulsing in front of her eyes as her blood hammered through her temples.

“I know. And it's all his fault.”

She nodded, bobbing her head up and down, trying to disguise the fact that she was looking around the room, trying to figure out if she could get to her phone, if she could use the lamp as a weapon, if she should just scream for help. She clenched her hands in the sheets, hoping he couldn't see them shaking. She didn't know what would set him off. “You know, I'd hate for you to get in trouble. Maybe you should head out, and I can come meet you later. What do you think?”

“No. I've got you all to myself now. I've waited so long to be alone with you. You're so fucking special, Taylor. You have no idea the lengths I've gone to for you.” His voice shook with emotion as he closed the distance between them and dragged his fingers over her cheek. Her stomach churned, and she clamped her jaw against the fresh wave of nausea rolling through her at his touch.

“You're so beautiful,” he breathed, stroking her face again, while she held as still as possible. “My angel. Too pretty for this world.”

Where the hell was Colt? Panic spiraled through her, making it hard to breathe, and she glanced at the door.

Baker chuckled, a sad little sound, as though he were disappointed in her. “He's not coming. He's dead.”

Colt blinked, trying to focus his eyes. He forced a deep breath into his chest. Pain shot through his legs, and he realized that he was on his knees in the toolshed. The light was too bright, and every movement of his head, even his eyes, sent the room spinning sideways.

He slumped over, his shoulder slamming into the workbench. With a mumbled curse, he tried to push up to his feet but found that his ankles were bound together with a heavy layer of duct tape. Groaning as pain throbbed through his temples, he sank down onto his ass and pulled his legs clumsily in front of him, reaching forward to pull at the duct tape. But his arms wouldn't cooperate, and it took his brain a few seconds to realize that they were duct-taped behind him. Forcing himself to concentrate, to coordinate his movements, he rolled onto his stomach. From there, he curled into a fetal position, got his knees under him, and hopped to standing.

His eyes roved the toolshed, looking for a knife, a saw, anything. The sound of the cabin's alarm reached him, and Taylor screamed. The sound tore through him like a jagged knife. He moved toward the door, and it swung open. Pain exploded across his face as the man stepped into the toolshed. Colt fell back and slumped to the ground.

Colt began to struggle back to his feet, but the man pushed him down and drew a gun from his waistband, then pressed it to Colt's temple.

Taylor screamed again, and the remaining fog in Colt's mind seemed to clear. Getting to Taylor was the only thing that mattered. He'd made her a promise that he would keep her safe, that she could trust him to protect her.

Ignoring the gun pressed to his temple, Colt ducked and slammed his head into the man's groin, causing him to shout and kick Colt in the chest. Adrenaline surged through Colt, and he pushed to his feet, squatting down as fast as he could and shearing apart the duct tape binding his ankles with the force of his movement. The man fired the gun, narrowly missing Colt as the sound exploded through the tool shed. As hard as he could, Colt kicked the man in the stomach, sending him crashing backward. Colt quickly slipped to the ground and managed to step through his bound wrists, shorn duct tape still trailing from his ankles, but before he could work the duct tape around his wrists free, pain seared through his back, and he felt the warm gush of blood. The man loomed over him with a knife, now stained red with Colt's blood, in his other hand. Ignoring the burning pain, Colt rammed his joined wrists against a wood beam, shearing the duct tape around his wrists. His assailant used the opportunity to slam his gun into Colt's face, and Colt felt the skin over his cheekbone split open. Then the man leveled the gun at Colt's chest.

Taylor screamed again, and Colt knew he had to take this chance to get to her. He pivoted and grabbed the man's hand, turned the barrel of the gun toward the man's chest, and wrenched the gun out of his hands. Colt pointed the gun at the assailant, who charged at him with the knife.

Left with no other choice, Colt aimed and pumped two shots into the man's chest.

Rocks tumbled against each other in Taylor's stomach, her vision narrowed to pinpoints, and her heart shredded itself into tiny little pieces. Baker grabbed her, his fingers like slimy steel bands around her upper arms as they dug into her skin. Her heart thundered in her chest, sending blood pounding against her temples with such speed and force that it almost hurt.

She opened her mouth, trying to think of something to say, something to do, but she couldn't seem to get her tongue and brain to connect. Her arms and legs started shaking, and he loosened his grip.

“You're scaring me,” she whispered, hoping to appeal to anything human that might exist in him.

“You've been a bad girl. Maybe you deserve to be scared.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Look at your skin. So perfect and soft.” He released her and pushed her down onto the mattress, stripping the sheet away and pulling a knife out of his pocket. She tried to stand, not caring that she was completely naked, but a wave of dizziness forced her back down, and then suddenly he was on top of her, his weight pinning her as he straddled her.

Something burst in her chest, and she began to struggle in earnest. She felt as though she'd been underwater in some kind of nightmare that couldn't actually be real and had just surfaced into reality. Anger surged through her as she fought to shove him off of her, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Get off me, you fucking creep!” She clawed at his chest, his back, his arms, but he kept her pressed into the mattress, his knees digging painfully into her stomach as he shifted his weight onto her. Still, she struggled, lashing desperately at him until she felt the cold, sharp press of metal against her throat. She stilled, fear seesawing with anger.

“Don't deny me what's mine. I don't want to hurt you, but I will.” He trailed the knife down her throat and over her breasts, flicking it against her nipple. She bit back a whimper, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of reacting. “You'll never have our baby if you don't let me fuck you. I'm your husband. It's my right.” He shoved a hand between her legs, cupping her. “This is mine.”

“You're a fucking psycho. I hope you rot in hell, you bastard.” She ground the words out through clenched teeth, keenly aware of the knife pressed against her.

He leaned over her, his face inches from hers as he rubbed his palm against her, his other hand still brandishing the knife against her breast, right over her heart. And then he laughed, a cold, mirthless snort. “This beautiful body is mine, and you're going to do what I say. I've played games long enough. I've waited long enough. I tried to be nice, to get your attention the old-fashioned way, but it didn't work. You were too busy playing slut with that brute. You want to be a slut? I can treat you like a slut.”

Her teeth clamped down on her lip, and she felt a tear cut a hot swath over her cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut. She let loose another wordless scream, putting everything she had into it. Baker yanked his hand from between her legs and closed it around her throat, the knife pressing in harder, hard enough that she knew he was breaking the skin, could feel the wet bead of blood sliding down over her breast. A gunshot echoed through the night, and her heart burst right along with it.
Oh God, Colt.
Tears burned her eyes.

“Don't you dare scream again, bitch.”

Spots danced in front of her eyes as she scraped at his hand around her throat. He let up just enough that she was able to gasp in a single precious breath before he resumed his choke hold. He sat back a bit and looked thoughtful, studying her as though she were an experiment or a crossword puzzle he just couldn't solve. He took the knife and, with the very tip of it, carved something into the skin just above her heart, loosening his grip on her throat.

She sobbed at the burning pain, struggling harder to get away from him. She could feel the warm blood trickling across her skin, and suddenly he slapped her, so hard that the room spun for a moment. The taste of blood filled her mouth. She screamed again, pouring everything she had into making as much noise as possible, and the sound of two gunshots exploded through the night.

“You promised me!” He screamed the words into her face. “‘Let me be your snow in July, / waiting for you in a world gone mad, / because I promised you forever, / and forever doesn't mean good-bye.'” He recited her own lyrics back to her, his eyes glittering and dark and wild. “That was for me,” he whispered, his voice fierce, and the knife dug in a little more. “That was about us. It's our song. You wrote it for us, and you're a lying bitch if you deny it. I know it. You know it. I want everyone to know it.”

He released his grip on her throat and she coughed, gagging on the air flooding her lungs. “I fucking hate you!” She sobbed out the words, her voice hoarse and raw, and began struggling again.

Hard, heavy footsteps pounded through the cabin, and the door burst open, splintering in the frame. Lightning-fast, Colt was there, and a sharp, metallic click reached her ears as he pressed the barrel of his gun to the back of Baker's skull.

“Don't
fucking
move, asshole.”

Baker froze, shocked fury contorting his features into an ugly snarl. At the sight of Colt, her muscles melted, relief rushing through her veins, sucking the tension out of her body and leaving her limp.

“Drop the knife. Now!” Colt barked the words out, steady and sure, his eyes narrowed to angry slits. Blood seeped through his T-shirt, and trickled from several cuts on his face.

Baker closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring. Slowly, he unwrapped his fingers from around the knife's handle, leaving it lying on her chest. Time kept speeding up and slowing down, and suddenly it felt as though everything were moving at double time. In one swift movement, Colt scooped up the knife and slammed the butt of his gun into Baker's head, sending him crumpling to the floor in an unconscious heap. Grabbing zip ties from his pocket, he fastened them quickly around Baker's wrists and ankles.

Taylor let out a strangled cry, her breath coming in shaky, nearly silent gasps as her entire body shook uncontrollably. She wanted to breathe but couldn't seem to get her lungs to inhale properly, could only get them to stutter and stop and jolt. Colt sank down onto the bed beside her and wrapped a blanket around her, covering her. He gathered her into his arms, pulling her into his lap and cradling her against him. With his solid, sturdy warmth around her, she let go, giving in and letting the sobs rack her body. He was covered in blood, and her heart caved in on itself at the sight.

“I'm so fucking sorry, Taylor.” Colt's voice was an intense, passionate whisper, and his apology only made her cry harder.

“N-not your f-fault,” she managed to choke out, convulsing against him.

“Yes, it is. I fucked up. I let my guard down.”

“You saved me.” She buried her face in his chest, inhaling the warm, comforting scent of him, listening as he dialed 911. For several minutes, maybe longer, she cried into his chest and he held her, stroking her back, his lips pressed to the top of her head. The steady rhythm of his heart, the deep rise and fall of his chest, calmed her until she couldn't cry any more. Until the fear and the anger had been wrung out of her, and all that was left was exhaustion and relief.

“What happened to you?” Her voice felt like sandpaper scraping against her throat as she spoke, partly from crying and partly from Baker's choke hold.

“Baker brought someone with him, and he jumped me. I could hear you screaming, and I had to get to you.” He took a deep breath, his voice low and gravelly when he continued. “I think I killed him. The other man. I think he's dead.” He went very still and very quiet for a moment before she heard a whispered curse, and his arms tightened around her.

“Oh, Colt,” she whispered, knowing what killing that man had cost him.

“I'd kill him again to save you, Taylor.” He closed his eyes and blew out a breath and then gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with a shaking hand.