As I sit in the cabin, the fire crackling and warm, I’m keyed up and anxious to get rid of her. Keeping her much longer will only up my chances of being detected. The police, as ever, are clueless, but that could change.
I must not underestimate them.
Besides, my note is ready, the letters perfect, the position of the star precise. But then, of course it is: I made the letters as soon as I determined whom the women I would sacrifice would be. And the star alignment—that was preordained.
My nerves are jangled, my mind already playing ahead to the time when she realizes that I’ve duped her, that I’m not setting her free after all.
That moment—when they realize I have ultimate power over their fate, when I notice not only fear, but a bit of wary resignation in their faces—that is the sweetest moment of all. Nearly orgasmic.
Soon, I tell myself. Only a few more hours.
But I’m tired of pretending, playing a character that is foreign to me.
Flirting.
Laughing.
Appearing easygoing and affable.
It wears on me.
Right now she’s sleeping, unaware of what is about to happen, so I have time. And though she doesn’t trust me completely, she’s accepted that I am her only lifeline; she has no one else to save her.
I saw the change tonight.
And now I can move forward.
The snowmobile is loaded.
Ready.
And the heavens are in agreement. Aren’t the stars in perfect position? Oh yes.
Isn’t the storm breaking? At least for a while?
There should be just enough time before the next arctic blast bears down on these mountains. Not only for one, but for two. I smile when I think how that will confound the stupid cops. They won’t know what to do.
Not that they ever do.
Seeing her asleep on the couch, fire reflecting on her face, I feel just the bit of a tug on my heartstrings, but I won’t go there. To feel any kind of emotion would only complicate matters and I could make mistakes.
I could want her.
I could even take the chance of making love to her…she’s already considering it; I saw it in her eyes today. Yes, she’s still frightened, but a little thrilled and beginning to depend upon me.
That’s unacceptable.
I walk to the kitchen, where it’s cold, the fire in the cooking stove long dead.
I pour myself a drink.
Neat.
Walking back to the doorway into the living room, looking at her, I take a sip.
The warmth of the whiskey trails down my throat and slowly eases into my bloodstream.
I swirl my drink and have another long, warming swallow. The whiskey calms me and yet heightens my anticipation. I watch her as she lies so innocently.
Like a lamb to the slaughter.
Oh, I could easily start the seduction. Kiss her on that little bend of her neck, let my fingers trail lower, exploring as I hear her take in a swift little breath of anticipation laced with fear.
Almost eagerly, she would let me strip her. And I will, but she’ll be expecting more. She’ll want my fingers to push her legs apart, to tease her. She’ll even hope that I’ll lower my head and kiss her there, even caress her with my tongue. Her nipples will harden and she’ll moan with desire.
Just like the others.
In the end they all want it.
To feel what it is to have a man dominate them completely. Oh, they, if given the chance, would protest it to their friends, but the truth of the matter is that every one of them wanted me to love them, to fill them, to hold their breasts firmly and press their butts up against my cock. They longed to feel the hardness, the maleness of my erection and wriggle against it. They ached to pant with desire, desire tinged with just enough terror to be erotic. They all hoped I would caress and touch them intimately, strain over their smooth backs, even nip at their necks, to draw just a hint of blood as I stiffened and came inside them, their buttocks and abdomen tightening in reaction, their pussies hot and wet.
Empty, soulless cunts.
As if I would degrade myself.
It would be too easy.
And without meaning.
I study my drink, swirling the amber liquid, before draining the glass and knowing that, at last, the time has come.
It is time for this one to go.
Another is already waiting.
For the dawn.
At the other cabin.
She, too, is about to meet her fate.
She, too, wonders if she can trust me.
If I will have my way with her.
If she will let me.
Smiling to myself, knowing all about them, I take another long swallow.
Silly, stupid girls.
Chapter Sixteen
Where am I?
Jillian’s eyes flew open and for a second she was confused. Wrapped in a sleeping bag on an old couch in some kind of cold cabin….
Her mind cleared and in an instant she snapped back to the bizarre reality of her plight. Her neck ached from sleeping in the wrong position and her ribs pained her a little, but when she moved her ankle, it felt slightly better.
The first light of dawn seeped through the windows, casting the furniture in soft, muted shadows.
But MacGregor wasn’t in his chair.
She twisted to look over the back of the couch and saw him standing near the large window by the front door. He was staring through the glass panes, his silhouette in dark relief, the sharp angles of his face evident. Bladed cheekbones, a hard, square jaw, eyes cut deep into his head, razor-thin lips set in a hard, uncompromising line.
He stood just to the side of the glass panes, as if he were being careful to position himself away from direct viewpoint, so from his vantage point he had a view of the exterior but no one looking in would see him.
“’Mornin’,” he drawled, sliding a glance in her direction. Some of the tension left his face. “You slept hard.”
“Did I?”
“Snored,” he said.
“Sorry.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” But the corners of his lips relaxed a bit.
“What’re you looking for?”
“Whatever’s out there. The storm let up last night.”
“You hear something? See anything?”
“Nothing I shouldn’t.” But his gaze returned to the window. “It’s clear enough that I figure this is our shot. We might just get out of here.”
“Really?” She hardly dared believe him as she pulled herself into a sitting position, wincing a little from the pain in her ribs.
“We’ll see. How’re you feeling?”
“Compared to what?”
His lips twitched. “To normal.”