Page 111 of Romancing in Rot

Across the aisle, another man steps out from behind a half-toppled shelf. He’s older than the one holding me, late forties maybe, with a patchy beard, a crooked nose that never healed right, and a jacket stained stiff down the front. The gun in his hand doesn’t waver as he points it at Leon.

“Easy,” the older one says, cracked lips stretching into a grin. “Don’t make this messy.”

Leon goes still. Lantern light catches the hard line of his shoulders, the red of his beard, the shadow beneath the brim of his hat. His hatchet is already in his hand, held low, but every inch of him has sharpened.

The man with the gun flicks the barrel toward the floor. “Drop it. All of it. Hatchet, bow, arrows. Nice and slow.”

Leon’s gaze locks on mine, then flicks to the arm across my chest, the knife at my neck, the man’s stance, the gun, the space between us.

Back to me.

Calculating.

Always calculating.

The blade bites deeper. A hot line opens at my throat, and something wet slips toward my collarbone.

The older man raises his voice. “Now, big guy, or my friend opens her up.”

Leon lowers the hatchet.

The clang when it hits the floor rings through the aisle.

He eases the bow from his shoulder next, then the arrows, slow and controlled. Too controlled. The kind of control that looks calm only if you don’t know where to look.

I know where to look.

His jaw flexes once. His chest rises a little faster. His gaze stays on mine, dark with something vicious and patient and focused.

Not rage that burns wild.

Rage that chooses a target.

The man behind me tightens his hold, forearm grinding across my ribs. He’s younger, maybe mid-twenties, lean and wiry, with sallow skin and long, greasy blond hair hanging around a jagged scar along his jaw. His fingers dig into my face, nails black and chipped.

“Damn,” he says, breath hot against my ear. “Look at this one. Been a while since we had something this pretty.”

My stomach goes cold.

The older one chuckles, already relaxing. “Yeah. We’ll have some fun with her first.”

Leon doesn’t move.

The store shrinks around us. Dust hangs in the lantern light. Somewhere above us, the ceiling creaks. My rifle lies on the floor. My crowbar is trapped in my pack. A knife kisses my throat, and two men think fear has made me theirs.

I’ve been in this cage before.

Russ’s shadow crawls up my spine.

No.

Not again.

Not ever again.

The younger man drags me backward toward a dark doorway at the back of the store. His breath scrapes over my cheek. “I won’t be too rough if you behave.”

The knife slides lower, not cutting, just threatening. A promise made with steel.