Amelia winced as he dropped his utility belt, laden with ammo and what looked like grenades, to the floor, only mildly relieved when something didn’t blow. More weaponry followed it to the floor, so much she was surprised he had been able to stand upright. Then he sat down and began unlacing his boots. She swallowed as he dropped the first one on the wooden floor, smiling when she jumped at the sound.

Maybe it was the shock that gave her this terrible clarity of thought. Or maybe she just knew she didn’t have time to be afraid. She reached and found the cool heavy Bible she’d left under her pillow. It wasn’t much, but its weight and its message offered comfort and support.

He unlaced the other boot and pulled it off, dropping it, too. He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off to reveal powerful shoulders. A tattoo of a dragon marred one side of his chest, the head where his heart should have been. The tail trailed down his biceps almost to his wrist. All that was left was his pants. He stood, undoing the buttons one by one. He had the soul of a stripper, taking them down slowly, then kicking them into the corner.

The whole time, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His body movement said it for him. Amelia looked once, then kept her gaze fixed on his face. It was obvious that he felt in control of the situation as he looked her from top to bottom, his eyes stripping her down to cringing flesh.

Her body tensed, adrenaline screaming in her veins. Her head buzzed with it. Only one clear thought. She had to stop him.

His smile was feral as he closed on her. He grabbed her chin. His fingers digging in with cruel force, tightening until they cut down on her air.

Her head spun. Her vision narrowed sharply as she fought to stay conscious.

His eyes, his touch told her he wouldn't be kind. He was a predator, concerned only with what he could take. With his free hand, he grabbed the neck of her shirt and ripped it off. His eyes raked her exposed flesh, her bra a frail barrier in the storm. His hand went to the strap on her shoulder, his nails raking her flesh as he ripped it down. His mouth swooped toward hers.

She couldn’t stand it. The stench of him filled her nostrils; her stomach roiled. She couldn’t abide his touch, couldn’t stand to have him erase the sweet memory of Luke’s kiss with his vileness.

Her knee jerked up with all the force she could muster, plus the adrenaline chaser. It slammed into his groin. His gasp sprayed her with his spit. She flinched away from it, from him. He shoved her away, the force knocking what little breath she had left out of her.

His body curled around his injured member with a wheezing groan.

She could see his neck. It was dirty, like a boy who’d been in mud. She lifted her arm holding the Bible. Then brought it down on his neck. The jolt of it vibrated up her arm. Her hand went numb and the Bible dropped. She backed away.

He seemed to hang there for a several heartbeats, then fell onto the bed.

She was sorry he’d had a soft landing. Her breathing was quick, panicked, but still distant. As if she’d left her body and become an observer. The air felt cold on her exposed skin. The wounds he’d inflicted throbbed with the frantic beat of her heart. But something insulated her from the full horror of what had almost happened. She edged past the feet sticking off the edge of the bed and grabbed his rifle.

It was an M1 carbine. She checked the magazine. It looked like it held at least thirty rounds. She shoved the magazine home again and pointed it at him, somewhat startled by how familiar it felt in her hands.

He wasn’t moving. He was breathing. A harsh, sonorous sound in the deep silence of the room. It occurred to her that she ought to secure him while she could. Keeping him covered, she retrieved the handcuffs and secured one around his wrist, shoved it through the bed post and secured the other.

It was awful being close to him. He stank of cheap cologne, sweat and booze. He groaned, and her heart jumped into overdrive again. If he woke, he could raise an alarm. From her safe distance from herself, she watched as she lifted the butt of the gun and brought it down, but she stopped short of his temple.

What are you doing? She asked herself, horrified.

He was going to rape you, she reminded herself.

She lifted it again. This time she closed her eyes and brought it down without stopping. It crunched sickeningly. She opened her eyes. Saw blood bubble up from the wound she’d made and start down the side of his face. It dropped, brilliant red, on the white sheets of the bed.

Her stomach heaved. She could smell the blood. Worse, she could smell him. His smell was all around her. It seemed to fill the room. For a moment, horror broke through the barrier of shock protecting her, but she fought it back.

She covered him with the blanket and turned away with relief. She turned her back on him and looked at the door. It was closed, but she was pretty sure he hadn’t locked it when he came in. Why should he? He had the guns and the size. Just hadn’t had the brain.

She checked. The knob turned. She eased it open, peering out through a crack. The hall was empty. No sounds from downstairs. She could see the key hanging where O'Rourke kept it. She closed the door and leaned against it. She stared at the motionless man, then she picked up his pants.

“Yuck.” To get her mind off what he’d probably done in these pants, she measured her foot against the side of his boot. They’d work. It felt good to have a plan. And it kept the horror at bay.