by Sarah Abbot
Her heart froze in her chest. She inched forward again, heart now pounding with terror.
Forget the knife. She had to get to the car! Her breath hissed in the charged stillness of the cottage, as if the only part of her body capable of movement was her heaving lungs.
And then, she heard it.
A sound: soft, commanding.
She closed her eyelids over the tears that sprang beneath them, terror thrumming beneath her skin like an animal that prowled to be loosed.
She turned slowly toward the darkened corner by the stairway—the place from which the sound had come.
She saw him then, as if his voice had caused him to materialize.
“Celeste,” he whispered, the word saturated with undisguised longing.
“Who are you?” she said, her trembling voice barely registering.
She saw the core of blackness shift and move from behind the stairs. “Only who I’ve always been. You’d have recognized me if you’d tried.”
The voice reverberated down her spine and lifted the hair on the back of her neck. She had heard that voice before, and it wasn’t the voice of Bartholomew Briggs.
Her eyes made a panicked dart toward the door as she wondered if she could make it back to the car. As if sensing her thoughts, the figure bolted at her, slamming her against the wall where she was pinned, helpless.
“Connor?” she gasped, staring up at the mad, blazing eyes that looked down at her. Confusion collided with disbelief. This wasn’t right—Connor wasn’t the man who had stalked her, who had hurt Ronnie…was he? Surely this was a joke; surely this would all make sense in the morning. “Connor, please,” she whimpered, “what on earth are you doing?”
Connor spun her around with a dexterity that belied his form, twisting her arm painfully behind her. His breath was moist on her neck as he inhaled deeply. “I’ve waited so long for this, my lovely Celeste.” His tongue touched the skin behind her ear, drew upward with unhurried pleasure.
Unimaginable terror streaked through her, seemed to light her psyche with the screaming red that warned of deadly danger.
How can this be? Abby’s brain had come to a terror-stricken halt. Nothing was making any sense; nothing seemed real. All this time it was Connor who had been stalking her.
And Connor had just called her Celeste.
“Connor,” she said, pleading, “it’s me. It’s Abrielle Lancaster!”
He heaved against her back, pinning her more ruthlessly to the wall. Abby gasped with pain, feeling as if her arm were about to twist in two.
“Celeste,” he said, his voice sounding heavy with wanting, “I knew you’d come back to me.”
Abby felt his expression change, felt his cheek lift as with a slow, evil smile. He pushed his tongue into her ear before he spoke, sighing as if savoring something perfectly delicious.
“I knew you’d come. Good things come to those who wait.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
“Connor, listen to me; it’s Abby!”
A growl of anger rattled in his throat. He yanked her from the wall and shoved. Abby stumbled to the floor, knocking her shoulder on the corner of the table and sprawling onto her back.
Connor glared down at her. “I know who you are,” he said menacingly. “You are my future, my past, my everything… and then you abandoned me.” He kicked the table, sending it halfway across the room. “Tell me your name!”
She winced at the sound, crying in earnest, suddenly incapable of separating the sound of her sobs from the rain, his breathing, her own beating heart. They all collided within her. “Abrielle,” she sobbed.
He erupted with a primordial sounding yell that sent her spirit spiraling in on itself. “Tell me your name!” he roared, droplets of spittle raining down upon her.
Abby gasped, knowing she had only one chance of survival. “C-Celeste,” she said quietly, not believing her own voice.
He knelt before her, crowding her view with his face. His smile was slow and ice-cold. “Now that’s better.” He tilted his head closer, whispered, “I knew you’d remember. The night of the Marauder’s Return, how I took you to the cave. Everything we did there. How I made you scream with pleasure.”
Abby wanted to gag. This was the secret Bart had been talking about. Connor Flynn had not only stalked her mother. He’d raped her. Was he going to rape again? “Connor, please—”
His face came closer. Abby saw a glazed sort of fearlessness there. “That’s it,” he said. “Ask me.” He lifted a length of her hair, pressed it to his lips. His eyes closed blissfully. “Beg me.”
“Please!”
“Do you remember the last time you begged me, Celeste?”
Her flesh crawled with sudden awareness. He actually seemed to think she was her mother. Perhaps her only hope for survival was to play into his madness—to become Celeste.
Abby turned a searching eye inward, scrabbling together every ounce of strength she could find in order to rise above her fear and use her one bargaining chip to her advantage—and that chip was the fact that Connor was insanely in love with Celeste.
“No, Connor,” she answered, praying she sounded sweetly penitent. Should I touch him? Abby extended her trembling fingers and touched the cuff of his sleeve. “I don’t remember the last time I begged you. But I want to…can you help me?”
Connor looked down at her fingers. His eyes were as cold as death, and yet Abby could see that something had penetrated that icy detachment—he was softening.
An answering chuckle resonated from the back of his throat. “Shy Celeste. Such a lady. You know, that’s what I always loved about you.” The smile melted from his lips. “So like my mother. Until she left me.”
The glint in his eyes looked suddenly dangerous as he spoke of his mother. For her own safety, she had to change the subject. “Tell me what happened the last time we were together.”
It worked. The anger faded. Connor stared at her, eyes hooded and almost drugged. The sleepy, blissful smile that spread over his face struck her to the heart with debilitating fear.
“Don’t you remember, my sweet?” he asked dreamily. “I came to look after you in your fine brick house. I hid in the attic, made a peephole right over your bed. I watched over your baby when you slept. I gave up everything to come to you.”
The dreamy expression faded from his face. “I didn’t mean for you to fall, my lovely. I didn’t mean to leave that window open. I was waiting for you when you came up that night. If only you hadn’t played hard to get, hadn’t tried to push me away, you never would have fallen through that window.”
Abby couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. He’d been in Regency Park? He’d been there the night her mother died? “My mother didn’t kill herself?” she asked, stunned. No, of course she didn’t—he’d just admitted as much. He’d been waiting for her in the attic. He’d tried to rape her again, and she had fought back. That’s why her mother had died!
“You murdered her!” she shouted.
His fist shot out. Abby gasped in shock as the sickening thud hit her belly, leaving her winded, gasping frantically for breath. On the periphery of her vision, she saw him rise, saw him fumble with his belt buckle.
No, no! she thought silently, eyes darting as she searched for something, anything, to use as a weapon against him.
She knew it all then, as he flipped her onto her belly and bound her wrists with his belt, knew that his vile, wretched hands had groped her mother’s flesh as they now did hers, knew his foul breath had bathed her face with the same rancid lust.
A million thoughts converged in her head: his eyes upon her, watching from the forest, imbuing the darkness with his secret, quivering pulse.
With clinical detachment, she recalled how Connor had known immediately about her mother’s ruby ring when she’d questioned him at the police station how he’d conveniently lost the note that was destined for the lab; how he’d tried to coax her into his petrol vehicle when she had followed Bartholomew into the wreck
s; how he’d been undeniably angry when she had called Ryan at Ronnie’s crime scene…because he’d wanted her there alone.
And it had been he and not the sheriff who had instructed her—through Cora—to go back to the cottage in order to go over the scene.
And all this time, Bart had been warning her against the devil waiting in the shadows. If only she’d needed his warning.
“Help!” she screamed, twisting beneath him. “Someone help me!”
A fist came down on the back of her head, slamming her cheek into the floor. Pain exploded behind her eyes, leaving her groaning—but she knew that above all, she must not give in to the shock that threatened.
“Celeste loved me. Just like my mother did…and you will.”
She felt his fury as he turned her face up, straddled her, yanked on her shirtfront with unabashed rage. Abby cowered at the sound of ripping fabric, saw her creamy flesh glow in the darkness of the cottage. An instinctive urge made her want to shield her skin from his view, but that was impossible. All that mattered was getting away.
“I showed her,” said Connor. “Showed her what love was all about. When I was through, she understood that I wouldn’t let another man touch a woman of mine. She left the artist at my bidding. She would have left your father at my bidding, had she not died. And you’ll leave Ryan Brannigan, because after tonight, there won’t be a Ryan Brannigan to love!”
“It was you,” she said, sobbing. “You did it all. You tried to kill Ronnie!”
His face barely registered a response. “That was for you, my lovely. An image to remind you of who you really are. Didn’t she look pretty, posed like my lovely Celeste?”
The blood drained from her face. He was going to kill her.
Abby tried to scream but couldn’t.
He pinned her wrists painfully against the rough carpet. “I can’t let you be wanton like your mother—like my mother. Not when I love you so much. It’s better you die. It’s better that I make you pure.”
“My mother didn’t love you, Connor,” she dared. “She left you! She could never love you!”
The transformation of his expression was horrifying. “It was his fault! It was the artist’s fault that Celeste left!”
Connor grabbed her by the shoulders and thumped her onto the floor. Pain resonated from her bound wrists, and she writhed with the shock of it. He bent down, drew his tongue over her cheek. “She loved me. She gave herself to me. And she was sweet like honey.”
“You’re a sick rapist!” she screamed, forcing the words past the strangulating lump in her throat.
His hand descended so quickly, she couldn’t dodge it. It collided with the side of her face. She cowered into her shoulders, aching for a more substantial protection from him, but there was nothing. Connor Flynn would destroy her as he’d destroyed her mother.
With the sound of cracking wood, the front door was thrown open.
“Abby!”
She tried to turn to the sound of the voice…of Ryan’s voice…but she was pinned too securely.
Ryan burst into the room, colliding shoulder to shoulder with Connor. They fell to the ground, rolling in a spectacular tangle of rage. Abby scooted backward, digging her heels into the floor until she thudded against the couch.
In the dimness, she couldn’t make out who was winning the fight—but she heard it just fine. The sickening thud of skin and bone, the jarring collision of body and floor, the panting of breath…then, silence.
“Ryan?” she gasped. “Ryan are you—”
“I’m okay,” he said, rounding the coffee table and lowering himself beside her. He was dripping wet, and blood oozed from a gash on his forehead. He leaned her forward and began working on her bonds.
“How did you know to come?” she cried, arms jerking as he tugged to free her.
“I decided I wasn’t going to let you walk away.”
“Is Connor…”
“Out cold.” Ryan grabbed her to him as her bonds finally broke free. “Let’s get out of here before he comes to—and before the hurricane tears this cottage to shreds.”
The cottage shuddered in response just as an ear-splitting crack yanked a cry from her throat.
Above her, Ryan’s body bucked violently. His face froze in a grotesque grimace, and he collapsed in slow motion, landing upon her with a crushing weight.
Abby shrieked in disbelief. “Ryan!” She struggled beneath his weight, then stopped abruptly as he started to groan.
The realization slammed into her: Ryan had been shot!
“Ryan!” she whimpered, stroking his hair almost frantically. First her mother, then Ronnie, now Ryan. This monster was determined to destroy everyone she loved.
Well, she wouldn’t have it. Not while there was breath in her lungs…and not while her hands were unbound. At least now she had a fighting chance.
She held Ryan against her, realizing in a shattering instant that she could never, would never give him up— she’d been crazy to think it possible—and she would overcome both the fury of the hurricane and the evil of Connor Flynn just to call Ryan hers. “This is not the end of us, Ryan,” she swore under her breath as she watched Connor rise before them. “I’m going to lead him away. You do your best to get out of here, understand?”
Ryan’s breath was ragged against the side of her face. “Don’t do it, Abby.”
Her heart twisted in her chest. “Would you rather watch him rape me?”
Ryan was silent. He shook his head minutely. “Run,” he said, the word dying on his lips as he sagged against her.
A black shadow stretched across them both as Connor stepped closer. Abby clutched Ryan tightly to her, peered over his shoulder, and into the eyes of pure evil. She shoved Ryan gently aside and placed herself between the two men. “Let him go,” she said. “It’s not him you want. It’s me. I’m yours, Connor. Just call an ambulance, and I’m yours.”
She was as calm as she had ever been, her thoughts ordering themselves in tidy succession, her mind preparing for the worst. She could do it, for Ryan. She breathed him in, exhaled a prayer for his safety, and concentrated very hard on the sound of his breathing. It was shallow. Too shallow.
“Connor,” she asked, trying with all she had to sound seductive, “don’t you want me?”
His gaze was icy as he looked down upon her. He drew back his leg and kicked, sending Ryan aside in a groaning heap.
“Don’t touch him!” she shrieked as she scuttled across the floor to Ryan’s side. Connor raised a finger in warning.
“Don’t you touch him. You touch him, he dies.”
Abby’s hand trembled with the need to comfort Ryan, yet she held it in place at her chest. Any move she made toward him would be answered with punishment upon Ryan. She could see it in Connor’s eyes.
“Now,” he said, “come with me.”
She stared at his outstretched hand, her entire body recoiling in revulsion. It came with every labored pulse, and slowly overwhelmed her body in its smothering embrace. At last, she reached for him.
“Ahh,” he said quietly. “That’s more like it.”
His face was twisted in strange delight. “Come, Celeste,” he said, drawing her toward the bedroom. “Come back to the portrait that started it all.”
She stifled a cry of terror and followed obediently.
“I came to her while she slept. Before she was fully awake, I had her wrapped in the sheet so I could take her to the cave. I taught her to love me that night. Then she left me,” he said, despondently. “But you came back, Celeste. I always knew you would.”
“Of course I did,” she said, voice quavering as her eyes searched the darkened stairwell frantically.
There. Hanging on the wall in the upper hallway, glinting with menacing light was a brass bed warmer—a long-handled device once filled with hot coals and placed in a cold bed. It looked very much like a frying pan. A very lethal frying pan.
A bone-deep terror burgeoned within her as she mounted the last few
stairs. She could smell him, hear his breath, sense his eager nearness, and her body revolted against it all with a nausea that threatened to overtake her.
She gripped the banister tightly, gaze riveted upon the bed warmer with a fixation that propelled her onward despite what would await her at the top of the stairs if she failed…but she must not fail!
Her lips spoke a silent prayer for Ryan, for them both, as she mounted the last step. One false move, and she and Ryan would both be dead.
With a cry that tore from her throat, she lunged at the wall, grasped the long, wooden handle, and pulled with a knowledge that her very life was hanging in the balance.
She reeled on him, warmer held high, throat raw with a wail she had no conscious realization of making, and swung with all her might.
Connor’s eyes sprang open, his hand reached reflexively for his weapon. It was rising, rising in the surreal slow motion of the moment, grasped in his hand and aiming at her.
Abby kept swinging, prayed that her arm, the warmer, would move faster—would make crucial contact with her attacker.
The impact was jarring. Her arm dropped; the warmer clanged to the floor. Both she and Connor stared into each other’s eyes in stunned paralysis as he teetered and swayed on the topmost step.
Silently—in the endless, spiraling moment—she pleaded with him to fall, begged him not to make her strike again.
Please, her mouth shaped soundlessly, as she watched in fascinated horror the trickle of blood that wound its way down the side of his face, as her breath filled the tiny landing with the scent of her fear.
He swayed again. “Celeste,” he groaned, reaching toward her, then toppled backward down the stairs, his body thudding grotesquely on each wooden step, until at last his body lay inert at the bottom.
Abby shrieked, slapped her hand over her mouth, then bounded down the stairs. She leapt over Connor’s slumped form, eyes frantically searching the living room for Ryan.
“Ryan!”
She skidded around the sofa as if she were on roller skates, and saw…nothing.
“Ryan?”
The front door creaked on its hinges, swinging in the building wind. Abby stared at it, straining to make sense of what had happened