War Bride (Battle Born #7)(45)
After muttering something she didn’t understand, he shoved her sideways and pulled a weapon from his belt. She stumbled, arms flailing as the true scope of her peril came into terrifying focus. She’d seen his face. Any hope she’d had of surviving this situation died with that unfortunate glance.
She caught her balance and charged past him, trying to stay out of reach. Light glinted off the blade clasped securely in his hand. He lunged, the knife slicing into her forearm. Pain shot all the way to her shoulder and she cried out, but didn’t pause. Blood surged through her ears and her only thought was escape. His other hand fisted the back of her shirt, halting her frantic retreat. She screamed, twisting and tugging at the material biting into her neck.
He stabbed three times with a sharp upward motion. Agony sank deeper with each stroke of his blade. She tried to inhale, but her side exploded with searing pain. Her vision blurred and the roaring in her ears grew louder. She couldn’t scream, could barely breathe much less move. Her knees buckled and tears streamed from her eyes. She clasped her side, vaguely registering the warmth of blood flowing over her fingers. She wasn’t even thirty. Was this really how she died?
The question echoed through her fear-muddled brain as a shimmer drew her attention away from her attacker. A second figure, nearly as large as the first, flashed into view. This one was dressed in a uniform similar to her attacker’s except his head was covered by a black helmet with a smoked visor.
Her attacker literally growled as he turned to face the newcomer. Through a haze of fear and pain, she watched the blade in his hand lengthen and curve. One moment he held a compact dagger and the next an ornate scimitar. She was hallucinating, likely from loss of blood. She pressed both hands against her side and fought back the encroaching darkness.
Her attacker swung his sword at the newcomer’s head, but the newcomer easily dodged the blow. Then the newcomer reached for the knife at his side, but as he pulled it free from its sheath, the blade grew longer and wider until he held a mighty claymore. More hallucinations.
She dismissed the impossible image and looked past the combatants at the entryway and elevator. The men were focused on each other as their swords clashed and swung. She cringed each time metal struck metal, but this was likely her last chance. Pressing her side tightly with one hand, she crawled across the floor. Pain flared with each movement and blood trailing in her wake. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t let it matter. She had to escape.
Light flashed in her peripheral vision and she instinctively looked back. The newcomer stood in the middle of her living room alone, blood smeared along the blade of his sword. He wiped the blood on his pant leg then returned the weapon to its sheath. The transformation instantaneously reversed, allowing him to more easily secure the weapon at his side.
“How badly are you hurt?” His deep, oddly accented voice was muffled by the visor. He motioned to the red smears on the carpet. “Is all of that your blood?”
She stared up at him in terror, trembling uncontrollably. “Just leave.” Her voice sounded weak and pathetic rather than commanding as she’d intended. He stalked toward her and she scrambled backward until a wall pressed against her spine. “Please, just go!”
Ignoring her protests, he leaned down and lifted her shirt, looked at the wounds in her side. “If I leave you here, you’ll die within minutes. Is that really what you want?”
Her hands were numb and each breath filled her chest with fire. He was right. Even if she found her phone and stayed conscious long enough to summon help, she would be dead before the authorities arrived. Raising her bloody hand toward the stranger, she whispered, “Help me,” and then surrendered to oblivion.