Page 6 of A Spy is Born

He cries out, his mouth leaving mine, and pulls away. I blink, struggling to focus. I’m lying on a rug on the floor of a room, the ceiling high above me. I'm naked.

I can't let him get away, because he will come back.

This isn't going to end well for either of us.

He chose the wrong country bumpkin.

I am more than he knows. I built my own damn pyre of strength. He can take nothing from me.

I roll onto my side. Jack is pressed against the side of a couch.He’s not wearing any pants.One hand holds an injured cheek. "You stupid bitch," he says. His eyes land on me. "You fucking slut."

I don't try to make my mouth work. I can’t waste the fire on words. I need to burnhimdown.

Forcing myself onto my hands and knees, I keep an eye on Jack, refusing to lose consciousness again. Refusing to lose sight ofhim.

Jack is staring at his blood streaked hand.He can’t believe what I did.

I let my eyes track the rest of the room. We are in the living room I passed through to get to the patio. The one the kindly housekeeper led me through.Where is she?

A shiver brings goosebumps over my bare flesh.She knows. She knew.This is what he does. I’m not the first.

I won't be the last.

His eyes find mine, and a spark leaps into his gaze. He's got his own fire. And the blood on his hand is like kerosene.

Jack launches at me, bowling us both over, knocking into another table hard enough to tip the lamp on it, rolling the thing onto the floor, breaking the bulb and sinking us into near-darkness.

The only light left comes from the city outside and the fires burning in each of us.

I taste the smoke of our contradicting desires, feel the flame of our wills, the soft linen of his shirt and the rough stubble of his beard as we struggle.

Wriggling, slithering, inelegant-but-effective movements free me from his clenches. Fingers tight on my ankle, he drags me back under him. My fists flail, connecting with his jaw, sticky blood coating my knuckles. He doesn’t cry out in pain but makes this weird grunt. Not sexual satisfaction, but close.

I kick out, or try, but he’s on top of me again. I struggle, my back burning against the carpet.

I inhale a sharp breath as a shard of something cuts me, warm blood blooming between me and the rug.

I have to get out from under him.

His fingers grab at my wrists, and weight bears down on my stomach, making it hard to breathe.He’s got my left hand.I kick harder, desperate now. Really waking up, all this movement throwing off the shroud of the drug he put in my drink.

Lucid thought beckons, almost in reach.

I stretch out mentally, grasping for clarity, but fall back onto instinct as the drug crowds my thoughts into the hazy, smoke-filled space of my subconscious, where my fire burns.

Strength infuses my limbs, and I lash out, desperate to be on the offense.

I’m not subtle, or gentle. I’m not some little girl. No way! A primal scream rips from my throat, and he is stilled by it.By my power.

Using his momentary surprise, I kick my way out from under him. He falls back into shadows, and I scramble to my feet, still facing him.

He rises slowly as I back up, my butt hitting another couch. My hand grasps it, and I move along its solid back. He’s blocking the way forward.

I risk a glance over my shoulder. The fireplace is to my right, the patio doors a straight shot down the wall and behind another couch.

My vision jitters as I bring it back to him. He shatters into a kaleidoscope of Jacks, all moving toward me with the slow, steady pace of a man who thinks he’s won.

He has won.

---