Black Ice - Anne Stuart [41]
“There’s a back stairway that will bring us out near the garage. We’ll have to get past a handful of guards and the guard dogs, and you’ll have to be quiet and do everything I say. Otherwise I’ll shoot you and leave you behind.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. He sounded cool, unmoved, as if he hadn’t just killed a man, as if he weren’t anticipating killing others. Somewhere she could find the same coolness.
He kept hold of her arm, his fingers gripping tightly as he dragged her after him. She could barely manage to keep up with him—she was shaken, weak and dizzy, but asking him to slow down wasn’t an option. He’d probably put the gun to her head then and there if she held him back.
She stumbled after him, down the narrow, unlit stairway, out into the frosty December night. The fresh, cold air was so powerful that she almost choked, trying to inhale huge lungsful, trying to get the taste and smell of blood and fire out of her. She wanted more, but suddenly Bastien shoved her against the wall, covering her body with his until they both disappeared in the shadows.
His body was pressed up against hers, plastered against hers, she noted absently. He was very strong—she’d realized that, hadn’t she? She might hate him with a shocking ferocity, but when it came to being rescued it was good to have her rescuer be strong.
Chloe heard the muffled growl from a guard dog, followed by a quick admonishment. The guards were making their rounds, but they hadn’t yet realized something was wrong.
“I may have to shoot them. Don’t make me shoot you as well.” The words were only breathed in her ear, just a whisper of sound, but she nodded.
The guards had moved past them, but they would be back. “Just promise me one thing,” she whispered, a little louder than Bastien’s silent communication.
He slapped his hand over her mouth, and she fought back her cry of pain. “Be quiet,” he snapped, no longer lazy or charming.
She nodded, and he pulled his hand away. The guards were halfway across the wide expanse of formal garden by that point, and while bullets might reach them, the men themselves couldn’t.
Bastien pulled back from her, seemingly unmoved from having been pressed up against her. “Promise you what?” he asked finally.
“Don’t shoot the dogs.”
For a moment he just stared at her blankly. And then an odd expression flashed in his eyes, what she might have called, in another man, in other circumstances, amusement. But there was no room for amusement in a life-or-death situation. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “Come on.” And gripping her hand, he started to run.
10
The night had ceased to be real. Hakim had ensured the place was well-lit, and they had to dodge from shadow to shadow as they crossed the wide strip of lawn. Bastien seemed to have a preternatural instinct as to where to move, and she followed by sheer, iron will, refusing to think about the things she had seen, the things that had been done to her. Reality was long gone, and if this were a Hollywood movie she’d wake up in her own bed, sweating and horrified over the incredibly real-seeming nightmare.
She’d survived so far, but it was no dream, it was reality in all its ugliness and terror. She’d left home, left the family tradition because she couldn’t stand death and pain and the sight of blood. And now she was covered with the blood of a dead man.
Bastien left her twice, and she stayed in the shadows, numb, obedient, waiting until he returned to drag her after him. His Porsche was parked near the curving drive, and their final sprint used up the last ounce of her energy. He had to stuff her into the passenger seat like she was a dead body herself, and she sank into the leather, closing her eyes, feeling the darkness beginning to take over like a curtain being drawn across a stage.
He was beside her in the