A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(77)

He'd found a small window open on the side of the house. It led into a bathroom. It was a squeeze. His stomach was scraped raw, but he got in. Then he heard voices.

He followed the sound to the entrance of the living room. Pressing his back against the hallway wall, he craned his neck around the corner until he could see what was happening.

Gwen and the goat man were engaged in a strange dance. Gwen faced the sea, her hair glowing like a halo in the dying sunlight. She moved to her right. The goat man, eyes fixed on her, circled left. He closed the gap between them with each step. They did a little do-si-do and switched positions. He wasn't wearing his ship captain hat and when he turned, Art could see hairless patches on his scalp. He looked like a dog with a bad case of mange. Disgust mingled with the taste of anger in his mouth.

"But I do," Mo said, his tone resigned.

"Let me go, Mo. I haven't done anything to you." Gwen's hands appeared to be tied, but she held them out in front of herself as if to ward off a blow.

"Only because you haven't had the chance."

Art's throat constricted when he saw the blade. He crept into the room. Gwen's eyes widened when he came into her line of sight. She opened her mouth. He put a finger to his lips, and she clamped it shut again. She forced her gaze to Mo.

"You're a woman. Therefore a thief, a cheat, and a liar. I don't fault you. You can't help yourself." His voice grew calmer with each word. "You're like her—a favored, petted princess. You even look like her. But you must know that."

Art crouched into a boxer's stance, fists raised to protect his face. He relaxed his hips and knees and shook his shoulders. He'd never hit a man before. He knew how it felt when his foot made contact with a sandbag, but he had no experience with flesh.

He launched his first kick—a roundhouse aimed at Mo's knife arm. The impact was softer than he expected.

Mo screamed. The blade skittered across the hardwood. Art righted himself. He'd almost lost his balance. A bag didn't give like a man.

Before Mo could turn, Art delivered a quick jab, then a right cross to his kidneys. His fists plowed through muscle and crunched to a stop at bone.

Better.

That was better.

He'd anticipated the force of the momentum this time.

Mo's knees buckled, and he dropped to all fours with a heavy grunt. No time to breath. Move in. A lightning fast front kick to the ribs knocked the man to the floor.

It was over.

Adrenaline pumped in Art's chest. Energy and rage ran up and down his limbs like electricity looking for an outlet. He took in deep breaths to cool the heat.

"Gwen, is there anything to tie him with?" Art circled Mo, never taking his eyes from the goat man. He wanted an excuse to pummel him. Any excuse.

"Tape. There's duct tape in the basement."

"Get it," he said.

Gwen brought the box cutter to Art. He sliced through the ropes on her wrists. She threw her arms around him for one second then disappeared from the room.





CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN


Gwen ran down the short hall, across the entryway and slid to a stop at the top of the basement steps. The jaundiced passageway gaped before her, a live volcano, a lion's mouth.

There must be something else to tie Mo with. The tape seemed as inaccessible as if it were buried at the bottom of the ocean. She couldn't make herself step across that threshold. She walked in rapid circles in the fading light of the foyer, tempted to tear at her own hair.

It was only a basement. Nothing more. The threat lay on the floor of the living room with Art standing guard over him. Face it, Gwen, face it.

She walked to the open door and gazed down the stairs. Just stairs. She let her mind descend before her. Mentally, she walked the long, amber-lit corridor, approached the gray door at its end and... She shivered and stepped to the center of the entryway.

"Gwen," Art bellowed. "Hurry."

She raced across the floor and dove down the steps like a child jumping into a cold swimming pool on a hot day. Don't think. Just move.

She jogged to the end of the hall and, thank you, God, the door to the wine cellar stood wide open. She stopped for a moment at the threshold to locate the tape with her eyes. Keeping one hand on the door to be sure it wouldn't close behind her, she stretched into the room as far as she could. The tape was just out of reach. She released her hold on the door for an unendurable second and grabbed the roll.

A crash echoed from the upper story. She bolted as fast as her weakened legs would carry her to the living room, to Art.





CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT


I curled into a fetal position and squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn't believe a teacher could fight the way he did. The man was an explosion.

Think. Think. Think.

Intelligence was my best defense against a physically stronger opponent. I opened my eyes a crack and peered at him through a fringe of lashes. He held the box cutter loosely in his right hand. That was the only thing about him that was loose. He was a hunting dog on point. Riveted. Alert. I could smell his anger rippling toward me in waves.

I forced my muscles to relax and let my weight sag into the floor. My face grew slack. Pain tore through me, but I didn't tense. I made a mental assessment of my body. A couple of broken ribs and a few bruises seemed to be the worst of it.