A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(78)

Possum.

It was all I could think of. Let him think he'd done more damage than he had. He was the type who, once he calmed down, would feel guilty if he'd done anything permanent. I could use that against him.

Sure enough.

Soon I heard his breathing grow shallow and steady. I saw the rigidity drain from his face. Soon, his forehead furrowed. He squinted his eyes.

Closer. Come a little closer.

As if obeying my thoughts, he did. He crouched to examine me, so close I smelled his acrid sweat. I stayed as still as death.

Just two more steps. Come on. Come on.

He obliged.

As quick as a snake, I threw my left leg across the floor in an arch. His feet swept out from under him. The blade flew from his hand. He went down hard. I leaped and pinned his outstretched arms with my knees. Surprise was my only weapon until I could reach the box cutter.

It was only a few feet away. I leaned left. Mistake.

He arched off the floor when my weight lifted from him. I threw myself back on his chest and heard air whoosh from his lungs. He struggled beneath me, but I held my own.

Not for long.

He outweighed me by at least thirty pounds. I had to reach the box cutter. I braced myself for another grab and threw myself forward. My fingers closed over comforting steel.





CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE


Art threw one arm across his face and grabbed for Mo's knife arm with the other. The man was stronger than he looked, his muscles all strings and wires.

Art guarded and feinted, but the box cutter made steady progress toward his face. Where was Gwen? What was taking her so long? "Gwen. Hurry," he yelled into the empty hallway.

If he could get a leg up, he could pull Mo down. But his pelvis was pinned.

He focused on working his right hip, inch by inch, out from under the goat man. Time crawled. He lost all sense of its passing. His world became Mo's contorted face and the blade slashing through the air above him.

His hip popped free. In one swift movement, he kicked up, hooked Mo around the chest and rolled with the momentum. Mo was down now, Art on top.

He reached for the goat man's arms. Before he could pin them, a sting shot through into his right thigh. He slapped at his leg leaving his face exposed.

Silver flashed.

Torture pierced his shoulder.

Art roared.

Fuel injected pain surged through him. He threw Mo off with desperate strength and yanked the razor blade from his shoulder. He smelled iron. Sticky heat covered his hand.

One palm on the floor, one on his injured thigh, and he pushed to his feet. The goat man followed. They backed apart and began to circle.

Mo hunched, readying himself to spring, his eyes crazy.

"I'll kill you." Art warned Mo because he should. He wanted to do it. He wanted to see the light fade from those pale, blue eyes. "Come on."

Mo lunged forward.

A missile whistled past Art's head and slammed into the goat man's. He fell sideways. A roll of duct tape bounced on the floor by his feet, then wobbled across the wood into a corner.

Art saw the next move in his mind. Before Mo could regain his balance, Art pivoted. The heel of his running shoe struck gut and ribs. Mo went down again.

Rage thundered in Art's ears as unstoppable as a freight train. In a second, he was straddling the goat man. He'd taken his wife, held her captive, was going to kill her. He'd killed others.

Bone and cartilage crunched under Art's fists. He didn't stop hammering when a voice yelled, "Police."

He didn't stop while he was being yanked roughly away.

He didn't stop until he was holding the sobbing body of his wife against his chest.





CHAPTER SIXTY


Art's good arm encircled Gwen's shoulders. She nestled closer to get out of the wind and lifted her face to the sun. They sat on a blanket in their old spot on the cliffs above Strands Beach—picnic dinner and glasses of wine on a camp table nearby. She couldn't seem to get enough of the great outdoors these days.

"I've had an offer," Art said.

"From Landmark Prep?"

"Yes. The same money I've been making, but the cost of living is so much less in Idaho. I think we'd be fine."

"Maricela could list our house," Gwen said.

"She could. This is a big decision, though. How do you feel about moving out of state?"

How did she feel? She didn't know. She'd spent most of the past month trying not to feel. The night she and Art came home from the hospital, there must have been ten news vans outside their house. It had been hard to count with the klieg lights in her eyes.

The number dwindled over the next week, but she'd worried the food in the house wouldn't outlast the blitz. Even Emily got tired of boxed macaroni and cheese.

Reporters on the street weren't her only problem. Her cell phone had constantly rung until she'd turned it off. Along with media outlets wanting an interview, she'd had two offers for book deals from true crime writers. The producers of the reality show "The Day I Almost Died" wanted to interview her for an episode. She'd hid in her house for weeks and wished, fervently, for her old life.

"A new start could be good," she said, her voice hesitant. She hadn't returned to Humboldt since everything had happened. She couldn't face her coworkers, especially John Gordon. She'd never actually accused him of anything, not even after she had learned he had been in the house on Cliff Drive the night before the open house, but her attitude had been harsh.