Chapter Forty-One

The only thing that saved him was luck, plain and simple. Somewhere in the woods, an owl hooted. The noise distracted the girl just enough that her aim was thrown off. The rock, which should have slammed into him—and quite possibly brought about his demise, too—glanced off the side of his cheek instead. Oh, the pain was still blinding. But that just spurred him to act.

E-fucking-nough, he thought.

An animalistic growl tore from his throat.

Shoving aside the burn of his injuries, he drew on every remaining ounce of strength. He grabbed a hold of the girl’s slim wrist and yanked her hard to the side. Her body hit the ground with a bone-crunching thud. She let out a cry. The sound was full of fear and suffering. They were emotions he enjoyed—the sadism was riding high at the moment—and he squeezed her wrist even tighter. But he couldn’t take the time to linger. No matter how much more he wanted to make her suffer now. Any second, his weakened body would run out of adrenaline, and the girl might gain the upper hand again.

Be smart, he cautioned as he released her arm and pulled himself up. Be patient.

Channeling his own version of inner peace, he stared down at her, assessing. The last of her bravado had dissolved. She cowered against the ground, sobs making her battered body shake. She wouldn’t be getting up again. The one arm might even have broken on impact. All things that worked in his favor. Except as he watched her quake, he realized it was inconsequential. He had a more significant problem. He had come far too close to losing control of the situation. It wasn’t the first time in the last short while that he’d felt encumbered by his own mortality. If it continued, staying in Whimsy was a surefire way to get caught.

A long-term resolution. That’s what I need.

He pondered the possibilities, and an unexpected solution came to mind. He needed someone else to know what he’d done. It was so obvious that it was almost laughable.

He smiled down at the girl, and for the first since bringing her home, he said her name. “Jennika…”

Her head jerked up. Her mouth opened a little, but no sound came out.

He stepped closer, reaching down as he spoke again. “I believe we need to alter our course somewhat.”

She tried to scuttle back, but all of her fight was gone now. His hand met her throat, then closed around it, then squeezed. Understanding flooded her eyes, and her arms made a useless attempt to fend him off.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said as her flailing abated. “I’ve got a plan.”