Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Kindra

A blur of yellow flashes in the corner of my eye, and I turn to see one of the Cattle dashing toward me. Not one to cow to danger, I square up, raise my chin, and try not to think about the machete in his hand. Feigning confidence is a natural gift of mine, and it's not like I can outrun him. He's nearly on me.

I close my eyes and brace for impact, but then I hear a grunt. I open my eyes as the man is speared to the sand. Ezra grabs the machete to stop the attack, but blood drips down his wrist. He's been cut.

I should go and help, but I'm frozen in place. I can't seem to make my feet do their only fucking job. Instead, I'm destined to watch the rolling mass of muscle as Ezra fights off a man who wanted to kill me.

Where's the fucking event coordinator? Don't they have a response team for this kind of thing?

Grunts and groans overtake the sounds of the ocean as Ezra fights the Cattle. His muscles tense and flex, but he holds his own against a man that's twice his size—weight wise, that is.

The machete skitters across the sand, and Ezra's hands wrap around the man's throat. He lays his weight into him as he strangles the ever-loving shit out of his body.

Sometimes watching him in his element feels like a fucked-up episode of Black Mirror . It's like watching a golden retriever maul someone.

Ezra switches tactics and releases the man's throat so that he can begin beating him until his features become a mixed-up sliding puzzle. I'm certain I couldn't put him back together. I don't even think doctors could help at this point.

His muscles flex and weaponize, all because of me. That's fucking sweet, but what do I say after someone just saved my life? Thanks? Can I buy you dinner? Good game? I don't fucking know.

Ezra goes back to choking the life from him. The man's legs kick in near-death spasms, but Ezra doesn't climb off his round body until he's certain he's dead. Once the threat to my life has been eliminated, he seems to heave a sigh of relief as he stands.

Jim picks up a bullhorn, and the feedback rings out and buffets my ears. "Due to unforeseen circumstances, the rest of the Olympics are canceled for today."

Not very unforeseen. I could have seen this happening if I was blind. Pinning criminals against criminals is a recipe for a shit sandwich.

"No!" Cat says behind me. She stomps her foot in the sand, the picture of a child who reached the front of the line only to be told the ride is closed.

I turn toward her. "I'm sorry that me almost dying is ruining your opportunity for a kill."

"It's just not fair."

"Neither is Ezra taking a machete for your friend."

Her eyes sparkle, and the loss of the kill is all but forgotten. "You admitted we're friends."

Jesus Christ. I wasn't thinking. It just came out. Near-death experiences will make you say some crazy things. I'm probably more shaken up than I thought. She's just an annoying stranger who follows me around, and that doesn't qualify as a friend.

I turn back to Ezra. He's standing there looking like a bloody Greek god who's just risen from the ashes after an earth-shattering fight.

No one should look that good after committing a homicide.

No one.

He walks over to me, taking my face in his hands as if he's completely forgotten he's coated in red. Warm crimson smears across my cheeks as his lips press against mine.

Bennett scoffs behind me.

Ezra pulls away. "Sorry, pet," he whispers. He clears his throat. "I'll show you where to clean up."

I follow him to a shower station tucked behind some fencing. Rust clings to the drain in the concrete floor, but it's otherwise clean.

"Are you okay?" he asks as he puts soap on his hands and begins to clean himself off.

"I'm fine," I say. "I'm not a damsel in distress, though. If it was my time to go, it was my time to go."

"If you have a death wish, it won't be fulfilled in my presence." He leans closer and gently scrubs the blood from my cheek, but it only gets bloodier because his wrist is still bleeding.

"Can you be a love and hold this together for me?" he says, gesturing toward the gaping wound.

I press the wound together. "If you pull a needle and thread from your pocket, I can't promise I won't laugh."

"It's super glue. We use it when we aren't quite done killing one of the Cattle. It buys us a little more time."

"Yeah, use it for them, not you . That gash needs stitches, Ezra."

"Are you saying you care about what happens to me, pet?"

I scoff, but I can't respond. My arctic heart would like to remain frozen when it comes to feeling anything for him. There is no room for feelings in my world. Feelings distract you and make you soft. His dick is distracting enough, and I refuse to let emotions sully the waters any further.

He glues the wound together, then keeps his hand outstretched, letting it dry, but I don't miss the way he's struggling to keep from laughing. I fail to see the joke.

Just before we exit the shower area, the sand begins to rumble and the smell of diesel smoke chokes the ocean's salty perfume. I round the shower wall just in time to see the mangled body of that yellow-clad Cattle rolling in front of the bucket of a Bobcat tractor.

Someone blind, drunk, or high—maybe all three—uses the machine to push the body through the sand before trying to scoop up the massive man. All the forceful rolling around has detached his arm, and it lies in the sand as the tractor backs away with its prize.

"Will you grab that arm for me?" he says. "I think I want to take a trophy for once. This arm was from the man whose death made Kindra say she cares. Do you think I could make it through TSA with it?"

"You're an asshole." I leave him behind as I stomp toward my villa.

None of this is funny to me. I don't care that I nearly died, and I meant what I said. I'm not a damsel in distress, and I don't need anyone to save me, even from myself.

Pounding footsteps come up behind me, and I flinch and wheel around.

Ezra stops in front of me, his hands behind his back as he rocks on his heels. "Sorry for sneaking up like that. Listen, I know you're completely fine, but I'm a little shaken up. Do you mind if I come with you to your villa?"

He's lying. He's about as shaken up as an empty soda can. Also, letting him into my villa almost guarantees we'll end up in bed, and I'm running out of time here. The orgasms are great, but they aren't bringing me any closer to my goal.

Ezra steps toward me, then holds his hand against my cheek, weakening my resolve. I close my eyes and lean into his touch.

His oddly cold touch.

I open my eyes and discover why. I shout and slap away the hand in Ezra's grasp, and it drops to the sand. I back away from it as if it will Thing its way across the granules and worm around all over me.

"Gross!" I say, wiping at my skin. "I thought you were kidding about that hand."

"I thought you needed a laugh."

"And you think my sense of humor extends to being lovingly caressed by the dismembered limb of a man who tried to kill me?"

A small laugh escapes my mouth, then grows louder as my eyes ping-pong from the sinfully gorgeous man to the pale hand. Ezra's momentary doubt recedes as we both discover that yes, my sense of humor extends just this far.

Ezra steps closer and takes me into his arms. Despite everything, I let him. The laughter has loosened something inside me, and I'm back to being putty in his hands.

"That laugh does something to me, pet," he says. "I want to hear more of it."

He leans closer, until his breath brushes against my mouth. I was almost gutted and yet, here I am, wanting those lips on mine. I'm so fucked.

His hands travel over my body. One grips my hip and pulls me closer, but the other goes to my throat. The grip tightens, and a wave of pleasure thrums through the arteries in my neck.

Does he strangle his victims? Staring into his pretty eyes as he chokes the life out of you wouldn't be the worst way to go.

"We can't keep kissing in public," I say.

"I don't care who sees."

"I do, Ezra. Remember why I'm here. People won't open up around me if they think we're more than just friends."

"Did you just call me your friend, pet?" he asks, mimicking Cat.

I hate both of them.

But the truth is more complicated than that, and the truth is that I don't hate either of them. That's a fucking problem.

No matter how much my brain tells me not to fuck with this man, my vagina usurps any rational thought. I'm a serial killer who is fucking a serial killer at a murderous retreat.

There's nothing rational about any of this.

Maybe one more distraction won't be such a bad thing. I'll buckle down and focus after that.

I lick my lips and say something I hope I won't come to regret. "Listen, I don't want to do this in public, but behind closed doors..."

Before I know what's happening, he's scooped me into his arms. Like a crazed juicer prepping for an intense competition, he begins jogging down the beach toward the villas.