The rapist slides down to sit on my thighs and starts to cut off my shirt. He's left my arms totally free. I guess he expects that strike to cow me. I turn back to watch him. His hands are shaking as he tries to work the knife through the high tech moisture wicking t-shirt. The branches on his hat bob.
His beady eyes dart up to my gaze and he sees me looking. The rapist freezes. His mouth is slightly open because he's breathing through it. He's big but not muscled—out of shape and disgusting on every level humanity has to offer. Also, apparently stupid because his plan appears to be to rape me here on the path. After cutting off my shirt with his hunting knife that he straight up sucks at using. Try the serrated edge, dumb ass.
I sigh. I'm just going to have to kill him here. Unless…no matter what I've got to get that knife before he destroys my shirt entirely. I turn to the side as if I'm trying to wriggle free…but I'm not. I come back, using the twist of my body as extra leverage and strike hard and fast—the base of my palm coming up into his nose.
The rapist reels back, blood exploding. It spatters my already ruined shirt and hits my bare arms, neck, and face. He drops the knife—what a fucking amateur—and falls over cradling his face and crying.
I snatch the knife off the path and kick him the rest of the way off me. Blood is spurting from between his fingers, and he is wailing like I just broke his nose and he didn't deserve it. The next 30 minutes are going to be a shocking course in reality for this dumb motherfucker.
I stand up and knock off his hat. He stirs, looking up at me, seeming to realize I'm still there. "Oh, you thought I'd just run away." I shake my head. "Nope. I'm going to kill you."
Those beady eyes widen. I fist his hair and pull. "But first we are going to take a walk." Rapist stumbles to his feet, following the pain, the leaves on his jacket tremble with his movements.
Spotting the faint trail he used, I drag him into the brush. The rapist is taller than me so has to bend to follow the pull of his hair. At some point he will start to fight back. I need to get him as far from the path as I can before my words penetrate enough for him to overcome the pain of his broken nose and his survival instincts kick in.
He may even have another knife on him. A thrill runs up my spine. This could get challenging.
We get fifty feet into the woods, then sixty. Seventy. And he is still just weeping, snotting, and following me down the barely there trail. The trees tower above us, the autumn brush pulls at our clothing with its half bare branches. The blood spatters on me dry and start to itch.
Up ahead a rock formation comes into view. The rapist’s path leads towards it. I'm not surprised to find a crevice in the rocks—a cave. "This where you've been living?" I ask, staring into the murky darkness. Clouds have moved in, the predicted rain storm gathering, darkening the sky.
The rapist doesn't answer, just keeps crying the same pathetic sound he's been making since we started this march. I release his hair and step back, the knife ready but low. If he has another weapon this is the moment to use it…but he just stands there in his ridiculous camouflage blubbering like the school bully just stole his lunch money.
But this isn't school and there are no bullies here. Just a rapist and the woman who is going to end him.
I'd guess I'm about a thirty minute jog to my car. A quick glance at my watch which Rapist does not take advantage of, tells me that James is probably waking up around now. Peter will give him breakfast, but if I don't get back in two hours or so my boobs will explode with milk. "On your knees," I tell Rapist.
He looks up at me. I'm not holding him in any way. He could run for it. I'm just standing here, his weapon in my hand, spearing him with my gaze. "I'm sorry," he says.
And he does look it. With blood covering the bottom half of his face and tears in his eyes. But I don't give a flying fuck about Rapist or his emotional state. I've got two hours to end him, bury his body, and get back to feed my baby. This train needs to get rolling.
"On your knees," I say again.
He turns and runs. Thank god. I might have felt kind of bad if he'd given me no fight at all. Rapist sprints toward the cave—probably to grab another weapon. I don't need the one I've got—that's how good I am. I drop the knife and follow, lengthening my stride, and leaping onto his back. He stumbles, falling to his knees, screaming—the sound shrill and terrified.
Birds squawk in a nearby tree and take off en masse. Yeah, Rapist, not cool. Someone could have heard that. My feet under me, the height difference is perfect. Make your hand thin. I hear my trainer, Merl's, voice in my head as I flatten my right palm and press the thumb against the side of Rapist's neck. Lightening fast I slide it around his throat, bringing my body close to his.
My left forearm presses against his windpipe and I grip my left bicep, locking it in place. He struggles but he's already lost. My left hand comes behind his head and Rapist is in a choke hold. He scratches at my arm, tearing at the skin with his filthy nails. Better my arm than his next victim's pussy.
I take in a slow, deep breath as he struggles. It won't be long. He tries to punch at my body behind him but that whole slim and not that tall thing really works to my advantage in this position. He can't get any force behind the blows. Rapist tries to punch my face but the same issues plague him. I'm too tiny. He's too big. And my choke hold is too strong. Die motherfucker. Die.
Preorder Relentless, book 16 of the Sydney Rye Mysteries, coming winter 2023: emilykimelman.com/RL
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
I am so excited you are here! The fact you are reading this note means you made it not just through my book, but through the sneak peek—you got all the way here because you wanted to see what I have to say.
Whew. I love you. Thank you. It's wonderful to find like-minded readers.
When I say like-minded, I'm not talking about our creed or culture. I'm talking about what kind of books we like to read. Stores that make us feel powerful. The ones that give us that “Fuck, Yeah” feeling.
I don't need to feel “safe” at the end of a book. I need to know I am dangerous to anyone who comes at me or those I love.
I don't want to feel protected, I want to feel like I am the protector.
I assume you like the same reading experience. You may have friends who like it too. Please tell them about my books. They will thank you and so will I!
If you don’t have friends who like this style of reading…well you do now. I have a newsletter, a Facebook group—a whole community of people who love to feel empowered when they read. Links to join are on the next page.
Thank you,
Emily
FIND THE AUTHOR
I write because I love to read...but I have specific tastes. I love to spend time in fictional worlds where justice is exacted with a vengeance. Give me raw stories with a protagonist who feels like a friend, heroic pets, plots that come together with a BANG, and long series so the adventure can continue. If you got this far in my book then I’m assuming you feel the same…
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