A glare of light glinted off the blade of a wicked looking knife, and Dillon knew this was it. She was going to die, right here in her own bed despite all the steps she'd taken to protect herself.
Had Elka even felt it when he killed her? She had to be dead. It was the only way her monster of a protection dog would have allowed an intruder into the house.
“You're no doubt worrying about your service dog. She's sleeping quite peacefully in the kitchen. I broke in while you were out running your errands and put a tranquilizer in her evening meal.”
The knife-wielding specter of death gave a little chuckle, but Dillon heard no humor in it at all.
“Quite a magnificent creature, isn't she? Expertly trained, but her sense of smell isn't as acute as it should be. Hmm, this won't do. I won't get it right this way.”
The knife sliced through her shirt like butter, all the way up to the collar, and when he spread the two halves wide to bare her naked breasts, the reality of her situation only got worse.
Tears slipped unchecked from Dillon's eyes, and later it would strike her as odd, how tenderly he brushed them away before getting up to rifle through her dresser.
“He likes black, but we can't have him distracted. Ah, this will work.”
Her attacker came back and sat again, cutting her shirt completely off before lifting her limp, useless right arm up to slide the strap of her bra down to her shoulder.
He repeated the action with her other arm, settled the cups over her naked breasts, then slid his hands beneath her to hook it in place.
“There. Now, you're no doubt wondering why I'm here, why I'm doing this, yes? You’ll be relieved to know the answer is quite simple. I need you to deliver a message for me.”
The knife disappeared, replaced by a black permanent marker. The soft press of the felt tip moved across her skin, and confusion crept into the maelstrom of her fear.
“I'm a very busy man these days, Duchess, and therefore can't deliver a message myself. Even if I did, I doubt my old friend would take it seriously or obey my instructions.
"In fact, I imagine he'd do the exact opposite of what I asked with a renewed sense of vigor. This way, he'll understand the consequences.
“So, you're going to do exactly what I say. Otherwise, I'll come back here to your house, and no matter how many dogs you have, no matter the security measures you put in place, I'll find a way in.
"The next time you open your eyes, this room will be flooded with light and you'll see everything as it comes. Blink twice if you understand. Good girl. Alright, Duchess, listen up.”
*****
Sweat trickled along her scalp, the tepid droplets rolling down her spine, and even in the middle of the blazing Texas summer heat, Dillon felt like a solid block of ice.
Her poor dog had awoken from her drug-induced sleep long before the paralytic in Dillon's system wore off, roaring and snarling as she'd busted through the bedroom door like a battering ram, frantically searching for the intruder she could smell.
Dillon couldn't speak to comfort her service dog. She couldn't tell Elka everything was all right, forced to wait it out with her hundred and eighty-pound dog straddling her, viciously growling at the empty room.
Fear and desperation gave her the power she needed to get out of the car. Dillon waited for Elka to nimbly leap down beside her and approach the open garage, where several men sat with tools or beers in their grease-covered hands, surrounded by a spread of motorcycle parts.
Elka stayed at Dillon's hip, glancing up at her with intelligent amber eyes, on alert for the slightest signal.
Don’t Fear The Reaper played on the radio, the song nearly drowned out by the whine of an air compressor.
Dillon used to love that song, but she would never again be able to listen to it and not think about the man who'd invaded the sanctity of her home or promised in such vivid detail what would happen to her if she failed to obey him.
Don't fear the reaper...
Ha! Dillon was so scared, she could taste it in her mouth. Or maybe that was blood from where she'd bit into her cheek the entire drive down from Dallas, terrified every car behind her might be him.
Terrified those two times she had stopped and let Elka out to pee, he would show up and demand she get back in the car to get on the road.
Or shoot her from afar for deviating from his instructions by even the smallest detail.
“You lost, lady?”
Teetering on the edge of an absolute melt down, the masculine voice pulled Dillon back from the abyss.
Her hand tightened resolutely around Elka's leash as she met the cool gray eyes of the man staring at her with an odd mix of interest and suspicion.
He came toward her wiping his grimy, greasy hands with a towel. He even had a smudge of it on his left cheek, just across the trio of scars that bisected his eyebrow and ran almost all the way down to his jaw.
Like most people, he glanced down at Elka with no small amount of uncertainty, his eyebrow arching in response to the way Elka sat with no more than a lift of Dillon's index finger.
Her dog was an intimidating beast on a good day. She had the short, silky black and tan coat of a Doberman, the sharply pointed muzzle and cropped ears per-breed standard, and the protective temperament of a Doberman, mixed with the size and heft of an Irish Wolfhound.
When she was relaxed, Elka was as lovable and cuddly as a purse puppy. On edge, like she was today, the dog was a first-class bitch with the training of a K-9 officer.
One wrong move, and whoever was in front of Dillon
