Chapter 48

Beneath a towering pine stirred a man as huge and solid as the tree trunk that sheltered him. He couldn't wait to charge away from the abyss of the branch where he hid. A long wool overcoat hung to his knees over heavy leggings that were tucked into bulky, serviceable boots, and his face was hidden in the abyss of a deep hood.



Each item was of a nondescript dark color, not quite black or navy blue or gray, allowing him to melt into the shadows. What had possessed him to come this close to a major road so early in the evening?



He knew better but he'd heard the screams so often of late, and could barely abide them, and a night such as this was made for death. They would be out, seeking lost travelers, and he felt somehow compelled to stop them.

Something in him pushed him to go against his clan for strangers or a stranger. He was adhering closely.



He'd been observing the female for some time and had seen her purposeful and confident

movements.



She was not one to be mistaken; she was Ashley.



Had seen her become first alarmed, then panicked, causing her to react so unwisely. Was she even now trying to claw her way out like a snared rabbit? Surely, she was every bit as defenseless, every bit as doomed. Without help, she wouldn't last till dawn. He was sure.



Her vehicle had been so fully engulfed by the snowbank that only the hood and grille remained exposed. The beam of its headlights, still vibrating from the aftershock, quivered on the road's frozen surface and made the falling snow look like a shimmering curtain. The front passenger wheel spun on its axle, several inches off the ground. Otherwise, he detected no movement.



Nearby, an owl hooted a warning. A rodent squealed, then scrambled through the forest carpet. The night fell into deep stillness, save for the purr of the engine and the whap-whap-whap of the airborne tire. He struck his brow and nose.



The cold troubled him little; he was well fortified against it, but he didn't want to frighten the poor woman to death.

Smiling with black humor, he reached into his overcoat, pulled out a ski mask, and slipped it over his head.



Next, he examined the damage to her vehicle. Over a foot of snow covered the cab. The snow would act as insulation and undoubtedly would keep her warm, but the running engine would soon eat up her oxygen. She was still alive though, very alive. He could smell her in there, the spicy scent of warm flesh, the tang of hot, rushing blood. Could hear the strong pulse in her veins.



He dug into the snow bare-handed, heedless of the scratches he put in the paint, effortlessly deflecting the myriad new chunks dislodged by his movements. When he'd cleared all the snow from the driver's window, he leaned over and made out the woman's motionless silhouette through the condensation on the glass.

Unconscious.



This came as no surprise. He'd seen her strike the windshield, seen her forehead turn crimson, and knew she probably had a concussion.



Doomed. Without his help, the others would finish her off before dawn. A guttural protest escaped his lips.



He must walk away. The risk was too great. Yet he had seen it, it has been written; on such a night, a gale would come with a resigned sigh, he stepped back from the window and hurled away the remaining snow. When he was done, he pulled the door open and reached to shut off the engine and lights. They offended his sensitive ears and eyes.



He looked down at the slumped form. Blood was clotting in her dark, curly hair and the beginnings of a bruise already stained her forehead, yet he still saw how striking she remained.



High, well-defined cheekbones. Smooth, golden skin; All still present like it was the day. A slender, well-developed body. A dislodged comb hung in her hair, letting her curls fall forward, which gave her a tumbled, morning-after look. His heartbeat quickened and he realized then how long it had been since he'd been longing to touch this same woman.



Fingers trembling, he moved a hand toward her fragile throat.

The wound still bled, the fresh blood trickling slowly down her face in tiny streams. He inhaled the tart odor and instantly salivated.



He jerked his hand back.



'Not harm.'



The ingrained dictum sprang to his mind and lodged there. He tried to dismiss it. Surely it didn't mean he also had to prevent harm. This wasn't his doing.



How could he be, when the female who struck him as an intellect during the day had foolishly driven down an unmarked dead-end road and bogged her truck in the night?



A trill of laughter traveled through the night. He glanced up and sniffed the air. Was he even now being mocked for his indecision? Watched, to see if he'd leave the unconscious female so they could fulfill their dark needs. Or worse, far worse, use her to fulfill his own?