Rags’s Awakening (Insurgents MC #17)

Prologue

He hadn’t planned on anyone being with her.

He’d walked by her place more times than he could count in the past two weeks.

He’d hidden in the shadows, flush against an oak tree, watching, planning.

Sometimes he parked across the street and watched as she juggled bags of groceries in her slim, perfect arms while opening the glass-plated door to the lobby.

At those times, he’d sucked in a breath and held it, only letting it out when she disappeared from his view.

But in all the time that he’d been observing her, she’d always been alone.

Bile rose in the back of his throat, and he stifled a cough while rummaging in his pockets.

Chomping down on the chalky lozenge, the man stared at the silhouettes against the drawn shades.

They looked like shadow puppets that reminded him of cold winter nights when he and his sister had huddled by the space heater.

Sarah would focus the flashlight against the wall and he’d play out stories with his hand puppets against it.

Sarah loved how realistic the characters looked, and she’d burst into peals of laughter that warmed his heart.

Then their mother would come in and ruin everything.

Fighting against the anger bubbling deep inside him, his brown eyes turned to slits as he glanced back at the window.

The room was dark. Voices rang through the cold, and he glanced over at the building’s glass door.

There she was, the overhead light casting a glow around her.

Mesmerized, he watched as delicate fingers swept back strands of dark chestnut from a perfectly shaped face.

She is a princess. A surge of desire coursed through him, and he clasped his arms tightly around his torso until the pain dampened the sexual urges.

The guy speaking to her leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, then walked slowly toward a car parked in front. He turned back, waved, and waited until she went back inside. The lanky fellow opened the driver’s side door, slipped into the seat, and pulled away from the curb.

She’s alone. Anticipation weaved through him as he waited.

He was a patient man. After a long while, a short man stumbled up the walkway to the building.

Showtime. As his brown hair fluttered in the wind, the watcher hurried over and caught the glass door as it almost closed behind the inebriated tenant.

He glimpsed the tenant sway into the elevator, and when the doors shut, he bolted over to a door marked “Exit” and slipped into the stairwell.

Quietly, he ascended to the third floor, turned the door knob, and walked slowly down the empty hallway until he reached the princess’s door.

Inserting a lock pick into the keyhole, he gained entry in under seven minutes.

The apartment was dark but for a slant of light coming from underneath a door down a short hallway.

The sound of water came from behind the closed door.

Becoming accustomed to the darkness, the man glanced into a room across from the bathroom.

He saw the shadowy outlines of a dresser, a bed, and a nightstand.

Cautiously, he stepped into the room and backed up against the wall next to the open door.

He stood there holding his breath, waiting for his heartbeats to subside.

Then the bathroom door opened, and he saw the sudden oblong spread of light spilling across the hallway carpet, seeping into the bedroom.

Pulling out the pocket knife he’d been sharpening for the past few days, he grabbed the princess as she entered the room.

A clasped gloved hand across her mouth stopped any screams that might alert neighbors.

“Don’t yell or fight me. I won’t hurt you. Just do what I say,” he whispered against her hair as he breathed in the scent of her minty toothpaste.

Eyes wide, she nodded, stray wisps scattering across a smooth forehead.

Walking her toward the bed seemed surreal. He couldn’t believe that after weeks of imagining various scenarios, he was there with the sweet princess’s body against him, igniting all the urges he’d suppressed for too long.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she said as he gently guided her down on the mattress.

“I won’t.” Hovering over her, his eyes locked with hers. “You’re beautiful. You look like a princess. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“No.” Her breath came out in small pants.

“Well, you do. Don’t worry. You don’t need to be afraid.” Gloved fingers ran through her hair. He wished he could feel the softness of the strands, but he couldn’t risk leaving his mark. Glancing down, the rise and fall of her breasts was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Please…” she sobbed.

After tying her wrists to the headboard, he shrugged off his jacket, pulled off his T-shirt, unzipped his pants, and rolled a condom on his hard as hell penis.

“Please, don’t, please…”

The princess’s voice faded away as he took her mercilessly. At some point, he didn’t remember when, he’d stuffed her panties in her mouth to keep her from talking. He didn’t want to hear her, only feel her, hurt her, punish her.

When he was done, he stared down at her tear-streaked face then raised up his hands. His thumbs met at the base of her throat. From the neck down, her body danced like a snake’s as he squeezed tighter. Her knees went up, and then went flat again.

The strangler pushed up to his feet and stood looking down at her protruding eyes, then at the slack seams of her lips, making her mouth open.

He picked up his jacket and dug into one of the pockets, taking out a silver sequined tiara.

Arranging it on her head, he carefully tucked a few tendrils of her brunette hair around the base of the crown.

“What a perfect princess,” he whispered.

After he made sure he hadn’t left anything behind, he slipped out of the apartment, down the stairwell, and out the side door. Breathing the night air of freedom, he promised the black skies above that he would never do it again.

The killer thrashed through the yard of the building next door, made his way down the alley, slipped into his car, and drove away.