Page 9 of The Torturer's Target

Max felt a disturbance. An off-putting wave. He could sense that he was no longer alone; there was someone else in the room.

Just as he opened his eyes, a knife embedded itself in the headboard above him.

His body reacted on instinct and he pushed himself away, rolling over and falling to the floor to dodge the second knife. His heartbeat surged with adrenaline in response to this threat.

He scrambled to the head of the bed, popping his head over the edge to get a visual on the threat. He couldn’t see anything other than the reflecting shadow of the knives in her hands and the striking, voluminous red hair.

She had not only broken into his house and snuck into his room but tried to kill him with a knife? How could someone be that skilled with a blade? Max knew it was a close miss, and he was lucky to have rolled off the bed. If not for that, it would’ve hit a vital part of his body.

Max dared another look, and the sound of another knife flying at him filled the air. He quickly grabbed a pillow and ducked. He heard the soft thunk of the knife striking the pillow.

“Shit,” he hissed, tossing the pillow aside and hurried to the other side of the room. But the sound of her footsteps followed him. He had nothing to defend himself with, and his room was soundproof, which meant that he calling for help was pointless.

It was a woman. A dangerous one who was after his life for reasons he couldn’t fathom.

He had to deal with this woman alone. But she had four knives, probably more, while he had nothing. Facing off against an expert like her, who was now blocking the door with her body, chances are; he wouldn’t last long. Max contemplated jumping from the window but quickly discarded the idea. His bedroom was thirty feet above the ground; his brain would decorate the yard if he fucked up that jump.

She had him trapped.

The fourth knife came out of nowhere, and his quick reflexes saved him again. Max spun away from the weapon, satisfied to hear the ‘clang’ sound of it falling to the floor.

As the pale light of the moon vanished behind a cloud, the room was shrouded in darkness. This was both an advantage and a disadvantage: she couldn't see him, but he couldn't see her either. He could only hear her footsteps, but then they abruptly stopped.

Heavy, uneventful seconds of tension-filled silence passed.

He heard the brisk and brief sound of a blade slicing the air. But it was really hard to dodge something he couldn’t see. He darted from the spot anyway.

“Fuck,” Max grunted as pain ripped through his thigh, and he fell on the floor. The gushing blood stained his blue, striped pajama pants.

His breathing heavy, he slowly got to his feet. “Who are you? What do you want from me?” His voice was strong, hiding the pain he felt.

She took one step forward and stepped into the soft glow of moonlight. That was when Max finally saw the face of his attacker.

Her luminous brown eyes were filled with ice-cold hate. The disdain, and the intent to kill was apparent in the glare she gave him. She was gorgeous, and she looked at him like he was the demon she had been sent to exorcise.

It stunned him silent. Never in his life had such hate been directed at him. Not even by the person who once tormented and made life hell for him.

She was quick—way too quick—and the next second, she was in front of him. She stabbed another knife deep into his right leg and withdrew it just as fast.

Max grimaced at the pain, his blood flowing like water from a loose tap. This close he could only see the coldness and rage of her eyes.

“W–who sent you?” he asked.

Tesiera admitted to herself that she had gotten a few things wrong tonight.

On rare occasions, highly skilled fighters might dodge one or two of her knives, but that was where it ended. But this surgeon had expertly—skillfully—dodged four of her knives.

“Who sent you?” he asked, slowly getting to his feet again. “Was it Walker? Did Walker send you to kill me?”

Tesiera didn’t give a shit about whoever this Walker man was; she was still reeling from the way this man handled pain. Most of her victims would be screaming by now, crying like a child, and fear would be written all over their faces. But not this man.

He had grunted when her knife made contact, but that was it. His eyes held confusion, wariness, and pain, but there was no sign of fear in his eyes. He was composed as fuck for a man who took two blades to his legs. She was livid.

Tesiera withdrew the sixth knife; she went for his heart. But it didn’t make contact. Instead, the man sidestepped her and swiftly swung his hand into her fist, knocking the knife away from her hand. A completely unexpected move.

Taking advantage of that surprise, Max limped to the other end of the room. She followed after him, withdrawing another knife from a hidden sheath. Tesiera jabbed it toward his direction. But he dodged it again.

“Who are you?” he asked again, wondering just how many more weapons she had in that outfit of hers.