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3 Honor

Consciousness worked its way into my brain like a worm wiggling into a wild apple lying beneath a tree. Little by little, reality came back. When I thought about it later, I wondered if perhaps it was my body’s way of trying to protect me from what was happening.

The sensation of being dragged had awareness fully crashing over me. I felt like a tsunami swept me along, pummeling me with memories of what just happened, taunting me with whispers of the horrible fate that awaited me when I finally opened my eyes.

So I decided that opening my eyes could wait. I didn’t really need to see what was happening right this second… did I? I had no doubt that whatever I would see in the very near future was going to be more than enough.

I concentrated on what was happening around me. Someone—the perverse kidnapper, I presumed—was dragging me at a fairly quick pace. My feet and ankles were being ripped along the ground. I could feel little cuts and nicks stinging my skin near my ankles, and I bit my lip against the pain.

The man had me beneath the armpits, hauling me like a ragdoll. I wondered why he didn’t just carry me; he was big enough. I wasn’t a very large person (something I was seriously sorry for in that moment). All the running I did kept me thin, and I only stood about five foot three.

I was the perfect prey for someone like him.

God, I was so stupid.

What had I been thinking going out on a trail like that alone? Why hadn’t I ever been scared? Why hadn’t my overactive imagination cooked up scenario after scenario of all the vile things that could happen?

Maybe I should have gotten a dog. A big, mean one.

No. I didn’t want that. Because if I did have a dog and he was with me today… he might have gotten hurt trying to protect me. At least I was alone and the only person that would get hurt was me.

What about your family? The spontaneous thought had tears rushing behind my closed lids. Would I ever see them again? How long would it take someone to realize I was missing? I lived a fairly reclusive life. I worked from home—I didn’t have an office or coworkers expecting me at a certain time.

My family and I talked on a regular basis, but not every day. I lived alone. Sometimes I went for days without seeing anyone at all.

I could be dead by then.

My best hope was that my presence online would be noted. That someone—anyone—might notice I wasn’t there posting or chatting people up like normal. But even so, my friends online wouldn’t know that something was wrong. They would likely assume that I got swept up with an idea, that I was hiding in my writing cave.

Sure, after several days of not replying to messages or posting teasers on my fan page, someone would begin to wonder.

I could be dead by then.

Well, shit. I wasn’t ready to die. I had a book to finish. My newest fictional boyfriend had totally stolen my heart. I couldn’t let his story go unfinished.

My eyes sprang open. The will to live and stubbornness kicked in full force. I planted my feet flat on the ground and dug them in. The man towing me along faltered in his steps as my feet tried to run away.

He laughed, holding on to my biceps, and continued walking. My arms were at my sides so I whipped them up behind me and grabbed a handful of the skin on his leg and yanked. Several of his long leg hairs ripped out and the sound gave me a sick satisfaction.

“Agh!” he yelled and dropped me. My teeth slammed together when I hit the ground. I rolled onto my belly and pushed up on hands and knees. He moved fast, drawing his foot back and kicking me in the side, my ribs taking the brunt force.

I groaned and collapsed back onto the ground. The pain was searing. So sharp it made it hard to breathe. Tears blurred my vision, yet I refused to cry. I would not cry. I would not dissolve into a useless puddle.

I was going to fight.

And if I died, I was going to die trying to live.

He reached down and grabbed a handful of my sweaty hair and yanked my head back. He forced me to look into his face. I committed every detail I could to memory.

He was broad, with wide shoulders and thick biceps. His hair was a sandy color, buzzed close to his head. His thick eyebrows slashed straight above his blue eyes. His skin was olive toned, his lips thin and his jaw square.

If he wasn’t kidnapping and trying to kill me, I might think he was attractive. His personality must really leave a lot to be desired if he had to resort to kidnapping women. A face like his would at least get him a date.

I wanted to ask him why he was doing this. What was his motive? What kind of sick pleasure would a man possibly get out of this? But I was afraid of the answer. Besides, I didn’t need to know any of that to fight back.

“You want me to hit you again?” he growled, staring into my face.

I didn’t say anything. The answer was obvious.

He jerked my hair and I cried out. Damn, that hurt. Then I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. I would be damned if I cried out anymore. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me in pain.

“Get up.” He grunted and pulled me up. I was surprised when he drew his hand away that a huge clump of hair didn’t come with it.

Anger infused me and I acted out, raking my fingernails down his nearby arm. I felt his skin give way, and I smiled. I just collected some DNA evidence underneath my finger nails.

He grabbed my arm and twisted it painfully behind my back and shoved me ahead. We walked along (more like he forced me along). I had no idea where we were. It was the woods. On top of a mountain. There were so many locations just like this one in this small Pennsylvania town that my guess would be just that: a guess.

I inhaled, the sharp scent of damp leaves invading my senses. I loved fall. Would that change? Would I forever associate this time of year with my kidnapping?

My foot caught on a branch and I stumbled. Instead of helping me, the man laughed and shoved me farther down. I fell, the side of my face hitting a small rock, and I felt the warm ooze of blood.

The man flipped me over and straddled me, sinking his bulk onto my middle. I held my breath and stared directly into his eyes, not flinching, not backing down.

“Most of ‘em are sniveling and begging for their life right about now,” he drawled.

Most of them?

Had he done this before? Was this like his hobby? Gross.

He ran a finger down my bleeding cheek and pulled it away, showing me the red. “You gonna beg?” he asked, sticking the finger in his mouth and sucking off the blood.

My stomach lurched.

When I didn’t answer, he pulled the finger out of his mouth and planted his hands in the dirt on each side of my head. He spread his body out along the top of mine, and I fought the shivers racing up my back. His face drew closer, his hot breath spilling across my face.

“Maybe you’ll like it,” he whispered.

I began to struggle, to kick and hit. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head and then he kissed me. It was a rough kiss, the kind that made my teeth clamp together and my jaw go solid. He ground his mouth over mine fiercely in a way that was so gross that my skin crawled. He simultaneously ground his hips against me.

I went still, playing dead. Maybe he wouldn’t like a woman who lay there like a lump.

Eventually he got tired of violating my mouth and he got up, yanking me with him. He didn’t drag me this time. He didn’t punch or threaten me anymore. He simply picked me up like a sack of potatoes and threw me over his shoulder, making sure to keep one hand on my ass at all times.