Slow breath. She cleared her throat and reminded herself to smile. I’m a happy, horny girl. “Oh Vaaance. Are you home, sweetheart?” She walked across the kitchen, unable to hear anything but the pounding of her heart. It took an eternity to get to the dining room.

Would Somerfeld just shoot her? Her insides cringed as if trying to flee the impact of a bullet. No. We’re going to save Vance. “Hoooney, I want to do a scene. You promised to spank me for being bad, Master.”

She walked into the game room and saw Vance.

Arms restrained behind his back, he sat, one shoulder propping him up against the wall. His ankles were fastened to a post with heavy iron cuffs. Blood ran down the side of his face, and his eyes were glassy.

“Vance.” Where was Somerfeld?

At a sound, she spun. He was right behind her.

The man slapped her across the face, knocking her backward. Pain exploded in her cheek. Tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision as she stared at him. Dear God.

His skull was shaved. One eye was bigger than the other because of the scars running past it and down that side of his face to distort his mouth. The girlie swimsuit cover-up he wore was bizarrely wrong.

As the pistol pointed at her, he smiled. His muddy hazel eyes lingered on her breasts, making her skin crawl. “I didn’t hear a car. Where’d you come from, slut?”

Her face still burned with pain. She swallowed. “The lake. In a canoe.”

He grunted his acceptance of her answer. “Sit over there.” And motioned with his pistol toward Vance.

She ran across the room toward her Dom…and toward the light switch. Can’t kneel—need to stay on my feet. Need to be mobile. Get to the door. “Oh, look at you, Master.” As she spun and glared at Somerfeld, she edged two steps toward the door to the foyer. “What did you do to him? Who are you anyway?”

The scarring—and insanity—twisted his smile to something horrible. “I’m the man who’s going to listen to you burn, slut. To your flesh crisping and your screams.”

The ghastly rush of fear turned her body cold. No. Move. She backed up farther toward the door. “But why? I don’t even know you!” Another step. Almost there.

He motioned with the black barrel of his pistol, and her mouth went dry. He’d shoot her. “Get over there,” he said.

“No. I don’t want to.” All her years of defiance served her well, and the words came out without her forcing them.

Even as he aimed the pistol at her, she backed into the wall. The light switches poked her shoulder, and she nudged the far one up. “Okay, okay, I’m moving.” She hurried back toward Vance.

“Too late.” He turned the pistol and shot Vance.

* * *

Moving through the kitchen, Galen heard the gunshot followed by Sally’s high scream, “Noooooo!”

Vance. He’d shot Vance. Galen’s throat tightened as he stopped just inside the dining room door. He’d have to cross that area to reach the game room. Do the diversion, Sally. Do it.

All he could hear was sobbing…and the splashing sound of gasoline.

Fuck.

He’d give her one minute and charge, no matter what.

A second later, he realized the cursing he heard was from Vance. The son of a bitch was alive.

His vision blurred for a second.

* * *

“Jesus, fuck.” Vance gritted the words out over the searing pain in his thigh. Nice hole in the outside muscle. Bleeding like a river but not spurting. Hadn’t hit an artery or even the bone. Hurt like hell.

Beside him, Sally dropped like a rag doll, her knees impacting the hardwood floor with a nasty thump.

Vance twisted to try to help. Couldn’t.

Somerfeld’s laughter sounded like the rough whine of a chainsaw. Out of control and revoltingly gleeful as he watched Vance bleed. He grinned at Sally. “See what you made me do, slut?”

“Wake up, Mommy.” The imp’s whisper held no reason, no knowledge as she rocked back and forth on her knees, arms limp at her sides. Her gaze had fixed on the blood creeping across the floor, dark red against the light wood. “Mommy. Wake up. Wake up.”

“Crazier’n’ me now. Oh yeah, indeedy yeah.” Somerfeld licked his lips. “Nice tits. Could use a new slut.”

Unable to help himself, Vance growled.

“Like her, huh?” Somerfeld nudged him with a foot. “Tell you what, I’ll play the recording of your screaming when I fuck her.” He rubbed his groin, cock half-erect. “Be sure you’re not forgotten.”

Vance’s gut twisted with his revulsion. No. It wouldn’t happen. He couldn’t let that happen.

Humming again, Somerfeld picked up the half-full can of gasoline. Pistol in one hand, he carelessly splashed the liquid against the walls, splattering everything in the area.

“Sally,” Vance said quietly. His partner must have sent her in here for a reason. If she needed to do something, she’d better be about it, or Galen would end up with a bullet in his gut.

She didn’t even look at him.

Vance lowered his voice to that of command. “Sally.”


BLOOD EVERYWHERE. “WAKE up, Mommy.” Dripping down the windshield, on her face, her clothes. On Mommy. “No no no.” She tried to turn, to get to her mother, but her arm wouldn’t move. She pulled and yanked. Pain tore through her. Nothing moved except the pouring blood. Red, so very red against the snow outside the car. “Mommy.”

“Sally. Look at me.” The steel in the dark male voice sliced through her nightmare and pulled at her. Her body obeyed, not under her control at all. Turned her away from the red, turned her toward the sound.

“That’s a girl. Eyes on me. Now.”

Her head lifted, her gaze met blue fire, and the anger—and love—in Vance’s eyes burned away the past. My Vance. Her skin felt clammy, and cold sweat ran down her face. What…happened?

As the stench of gasoline hit her, she was suddenly, completely in the present. Somerfeld. Burning. Vance had been shot.

He was bleeding. Shocked, she pressed her hands to the horrible wound. He groaned. How long had she been…elsewhere?

God, she was supposed to create the diversion.

“Ready to go. Indeedy yeah.” Somerfeld tossed the container aside.

Get it together, Sally. The receiver for the voice-activated program was very sensitive. She didn’t have to talk loudly. Sally tried to speak. A horrible sound emerged. Get the tone right, girl. A long breath. She turned to Ellis, holding up her hands in a pleading position. “Please, please, please, don’t hurt me. I’m sorry I brought her here.”

The dickwad stared at her. “You talking to me, slut?”

Vance stared at her. “Brought who?” he whispered. His face was pale, jaw tight from pain.

I love you, my Vance. Her hand closed over his. Please, please, please, let this work.

A high scream came from upstairs. “Master, help me. Master.” Another long wail.

“Fuck!” Somerfeld ran up three steps, turned to glare at her, and pointed the pistol at Vance. “You leave, slut, and I’ll shoot his balls off. You’ll hear him scream no matter how far you run.” He dashed up the stairs toward the sound of the woman sobbing.

“Run,” Vance gritted out. “Whoever that is up there, Sally, I want you to run.”

He didn’t recognize the voice? Of course, Gabi had been pretty drunk the night they’d made the recording. “Not leaving without you, dummy.”

“Goddamn it.” He lifted his uninjured leg and kicked the post, grunting at the impact. On his other leg, the jeans were drenched with blood.

She pushed her hands down on the wound, holding it as he slammed his boot into the post, over and over. Hurry, Galen.

Yelling came from upstairs as Somerfeld searched for the illusive woman. Screw you, bastard. She spotted a mallet in the pile of construction tools.

Yes! She grabbed it and hit the post holding Vance as hard as she could. But it made so much—too much—noise.

Hit again.

The post moved.

Before she could swing again, Vance kicked. With a crack, the screws tore loose.

* * *

Galen slid into the room with a quick check of Vance and Sally. Alive and alive. Although the amount of blood wasn’t good. A hog-tied woman lay in the corner. Gagged. Alive.

A woman’s crying and screaming sounded on the second floor—was that Gabi?—along with the thud of heavy boots.

Galen moved behind and under the stairs. Crappy hiding place, but the room held no conveniently concealing furniture.

Upstairs, Somerfeld yelled, “You fucking slut. Think you’d trick me? Huh?” From the worry on Sally’s face, the bastard had discovered he’d been searching for a recording.

Boots pounded down the stairs. Once Somerfeld reached the bottom, Galen could jump him from behind.

The man halted most of the way down. “You fucking cunt!”

A trigger clicked. “Hell!” Galen stepped out from the stairs and threw his hammer. The tool struck Somerfeld’s shoulder and knocked him a step sideways. The pistol fired.

Galen grabbed the railing and swung himself up and over, and hit Somerfeld in a half-assed tackle. The bastard lost his balance; Galen never found his.

Tangled together, they rolled down the stairs.

Galen’s back, leg, head banged against the steps with bursts of pain. He landed badly but rolled to hands and knees, Somerfeld beside him, groaning.

Galen tried to stand. His leg gave out. His hip and shoulder hit the floor, knocking the air out of him.

Growling, Somerfeld made a grab for the pistol he’d dropped.

Twisting, Galen kicked the weapon toward Vance and rammed his knee into Somerfeld’s chin. Pain knifed through his leg with the impact.

The bastard spat blood and managed to stand.


GALEN WAS DOWN. Somerfeld up. Vance had yanked the chain free from under the splintered wood post and tried again—and again—to get to his feet. Succeeded.

He tried to run and tripped on the two-foot chain between his shackled ankles. “Jesus, fuck!” Handicapped, he half hopped, half lunged across the room toward the fight.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sally darting the other way, going for the pistol, which had skidded into a pile of bedding.

“Somerfeld,” Vance yelled.

The bastard didn’t hear him.

Galen was on hands and knees, trying to stand. Somerfeld kicked him in the gut so violently that Galen was flipped sideways, retching and gasping for air.

“You asshole!” Sally pointed the pistol at Somerfeld, the weapon shaking so hard she’d probably shoot Galen.

Somerfeld involuntarily retreated, and into that moment of silence came the wailing of sirens. Approaching the house.

The bastard’s eyes went wide, fearful, then furious. Insane. “Burn it. Burn it all.” He pulled a match from his pocket, flicked it with his thumbnail, and it lit.

Jesus fuck, Vance thought, if Sally shoots him… Gasoline everywhere.

Galen yelled, “Sally, hold!”

But Somerfeld was crazy enough to burn the place with himself in it. No way to win.

Fuck that. Vance dived at the bastard, rammed into him—chest to chest—knocking him back. Glass shattered as they slammed into the bay window—and out.

Somerfeld hit the ground with a grunt of pain.

Vance landed beside him, the impact yanking at his cuffed arms. The pain that ripped through his wounded leg took his breath away. Sent his brain spinning.

He groaned, opened his eyes, and saw fire. His shirt. On fire.

“Fuck!” Unable to use his hands, Vance rolled frantically, smothering the flame in the damp grass.

Panting, hurting everywhere, he rolled back over, trying to sit up. And froze.

Somerfeld’s gasoline-splattered clothing had also ignited. And burst into a conflagration. He shrieked, slapping at the fire before he ran, straight down the drive. Flaming.

“Drop and roll, roll!” Vance shouted, trying to get to his feet. The chain clanked, reminding him he was hobbled. Could never catch the poor bastard in time.

The sirens on the approaching emergency vehicles didn’t drown out the screaming. Somerfeld fell, finally fell, directly in front of the police car, the first vehicle down the lane.

From the following fire engine, firefighters jumped out. They surrounded Somerfeld, spraying him down.