Page 121 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
“I’m going to enjoy killing you!” His eyes gleamed, shining with lust.
Digging her nails into his hands, she drew blood as she gouged out chunks of skin.
He laughed, rubbing himself against her, and bent down. Starting from her jaw, his tongue slimed its way up her face, leaving a trail of spit. When he reached her hairline, he inhaled, thrusting his hips, his erection pressing through the thin material separating them.
“I love the scent of fear.”
Twisting her face away from his invading tongue, Alana stared at the darkness beneath the bed. Something glistened, lit by a sunbeam streaming from the window.
It was the half-empty bottle of whiskey! She must have knocked the container over when she crawled under the bed.
One hand returning to his pants, Mr. Evans struggled to unfasten them, his eagerness causing him to overlook Alana’s arm, which slid into the blackness, bumping into the side of the bottle.
Grabbing hold of the neck, she yanked the bottle out and swung it at Mr. Evans head, connecting with his temple.
Glass exploded.
A trickle of blood dripping down his face, he groaned and slumped to the side, his pants loose around his hips.
She wiggled out from beneath his body, crying out, then immediately biting her tongue, when she ripped one of the bandages from the back of her thigh. Using the bed for leverage, she climbed from the floor, then jerked her shirt down.
Her eyes never leaving Mr. Evans, she felt for the trousers, her fingers closing around the frayed cuff, and dragged the pants toward her. Then, leaning against the armoire, she pulled the trousers up her legs—one painful leg at a time—wincing as the material scraped across the exposed lacerations.
Fastening her pants, she sidestepped Mr. Evans and limped backward to the door, forcing her throbbing body to move. When she bumped into the door’s solid wood, she reached behind her and felt for the handle, grasping the cold metal as though it were a lifeline.
The door didn’t open.
She spun around and shook the handle, rattling the door.
Mr. Evans had locked it after dragging her back into the room!
Glancing back at his unconscious body, she inhaled a slow breath, trying to calm her hammering heart, which threatened to crawl from her chest to escape the task of searching Mr. Evans. However, the alternative meant remaining trapped in this room with him.
How long would he remain asleep?
Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she returned to the armoire, her steps much slower this time, and stopped at the soles of Mr. Evans’ shoes.
His chest rose and fell in rhythm. Leaning over and peeking at his face, she determined he was still unconscious. Licking her lips, she crouched beside his left leg and peeled open his pocket, sticking her hand into his pants and feeling around for the cold metal of a key.
He moaned and shifted his body toward her, lifting his hips toward her fingers as though enjoying her exploration.
She jerked her hand from his pocket with a disgusted tremor. A silent argument with herself followed. She didn’t want to touch him again, but she had no key and one more pocket to search. Stealing her nerves, she leaned across his chest, her body forming an arc, and firmly grasped his waistband. Before she could change her mind, she shoved her fingers into the pocket.
They brushed over the key ring.
Elation flowing through her veins, her hand curled around the metal.
A heavy pressure wrapped around her wrist, squeezing, and stopped her from removing the keys.
“You’re not leaving so soon, are you, Mrs. Dubois?” Mr. Evans’ eyes popped open. He swung his fist, striking her across the face.
Her body jerked sideways, her head smashing into the bed, and she rebounded toward him, her wrist still imprisoned in his painful grip. Two more times he hit her, releasing her on the final punch and allowing her to fly backward across the room.
She crashed to the floor in the center of the cabin, the oxygen knocked from her lungs. Moaning, she rocked back and forth, her hands cradling her jaw. Unable to turn onto her stomach, her toes dug into the rough floorboard, scooting her body away from him millimeter by millimeter in a feeble attempt to escape his wrath.
Mr. Evans could have risen and walked toward her, but he chose to crawl, an ever-widening grin stretching his mouth into a frightful sneer, which only added to the terror coursing through her veins.
When he reached her ankle, he wrapped his fingers around the visible portion, just below the cuff of her pants, and dragged her toward him, clucking.
