Chapter Thirty Three
Hand to Hand
Jameson Bishop
David climbs with a steadiness that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. Beth is frantic; slipping and cursing. But David moves like a man who’s been living inside the fantasy of this moment for a long time.
He’s not angry. He’s focused.
Predators get calm when they think the kill is close.
Rachel stays behind me, exactly where I told her, watching the left flank for Beth. I can feel her tension, her readiness. She’s scared, but she’s trained. And she listens.
David reaches the narrow funnel, brushing dirt from his shirt like the trap was an inconvenience, not a threat. He looks up the ridge, eyes scanning the rocks, the brush, the shadows.
“Bishop!” he calls, voice low, almost conversational. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
Rachel stiffens behind me.
I rise just enough to let him see the top of my silhouette. Not enough to give him a clean shot. Just enough to let him know I’m watching.
David smiles.
That smile tells me everything; he’s in the aura phase, living inside the fantasy he’s built. The hunt. The dominance. The ritual. He thinks this ridge is his stage. He thinks I’m the final act.
He thinks he’s untouchable.
“You always were the smart one,” David says, climbing another few feet. “Smarter than Shaw. Smarter than the other Rangers. Smarter than Beth.”
Beth snaps, “Hey!”
David ignores her completely.
“But you’re not smarter than me,” he continues. “You never were.”
I step out from behind the rock, just enough to show my face. Rachel sucks in a breath behind me.
“Is that why you set up Shaw?” I ask. “He knew what was going on didn’t he?”
David’s smile widens. “There he is.”
He’s not holding a gun; he lost it in the trap. But he doesn’t need one. Men like him don’t rely on weapons. They rely on control. On fear. On the belief that their victims will break before they do.
I hate to disappoint him.
“You’re done,” I say.
David laughs softly. “No. This is the part where you realize you can’t protect her.”
Rachel tenses. I feel her shift, ready to move, ready to fight.
I keep my voice steady. “You’re not touching her.”
David tilts his head. “You think you can stop me?”
“I know I can.”
He climbs another foot, boots scraping rock. He’s close now. Close enough that I can see the dilation in his pupils, the adrenaline, the thrill. He’s in the capture phase, the moment where the fantasy becomes real.
“You were always the obstacle,” David says. “Always in the way. Always ruining the hunt.”
I step forward, blocking his view of Rachel completely.
“You’re not hunting,” I say. “You’re cornered.”
David’s smile fades.
Good.
He lunges.
I meet him halfway.
We collide hard. His shoulder slamming into mine, his hands grabbing for my throat, my arm hooking around his elbow to twist him off balance. He’s strong, but sloppy. He fights like a man who’s used to victims, not opponents.
Rachel moves behind me, staying clear, exactly as trained.
David snarls, trying to drive me backward. “You can’t protect her forever!”
“I don’t need forever,” I growl, shoving him into the rock wall. “I just need right now.”
He swings wildly. I duck, grab his jacket, and slam him down onto the shale. He hits hard, the air punching out of him.
Beth screams from below, “DAVID!”
He scrambles up, furious now, the fantasy cracking, the control slipping.
“You’re dead,” he spits.
“No,” I say, stepping toward him. “You are.”
David comes at me faster than I expect for someone who just got slammed into a rock wall. He’s fueled by something feral now, the fantasy cracking, the rage spilling through. I brace, ready to counter, but he shifts direction at the last second, dropping low and driving his shoulder into my ribs.
Pain explodes through my side.
He’s stronger than he looks. Stronger than he should be.
I stagger back, boots skidding on loose shale. David uses the momentum, grabbing my jacket and yanking me forward, slamming me into the rock face. My vision flashes white for a second.
Rachel gasps behind me.
David hears it. David likes it.
He presses his forearm against my throat, pinning me. His breath is hot, wild, too close. “You think you can protect her?” he snarls. “You can’t even protect yourself.”
I grab his arm, trying to twist free, but he shifts his weight, driving his knee into my thigh, hard enough to make it buckle. He’s not fighting like a trained man. He’s fighting like a man who’s lived inside a fantasy of dominance for years.
And right now, he thinks he’s winning.
He leans in, voice low, intimate in the worst way. “I’m going to make her watch. And then Im going to take her. I saw she likes it rough. She’s going to love me.”
The rage is sudden and fierce. She’s mine.
Rachel moves, just a step, but David snaps his head toward her, eyes blazing. “Stay back!” he barks.
She freezes.
Not out of fear. Out of calculation.
She’s waiting for an opening.
But David uses the distraction, slamming me again into the rock, knocking the breath out of my lungs. His forearm digs deeper into my throat, cutting off air. My vision tunnels.
He’s close enough now that I can see the dilation in his pupils, the tremor in his jaw.
“She’s mine,” he whispers.
I try to shift my weight, but he anticipates it, driving his elbow into my ribs. Pain shoots through me, sharp and blinding. My grip slips.
For the first time since this started, David has the upper hand.
Rachel’s voice cuts through the haze. “Bishop.”
I can’t answer. I can barely breathe.
David grins, teeth bared. “She’s next.”
He pushes harder.
My vision darkens.
Rachel moves.