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I take a step back, feeling the edge of the drop-off beneath my heel. “Stay away from me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the terror clawing at my throat. “I’ve called the police. They’re on their way.”

He smiles, the expression never reaching his eyes. “There’s no signal out here after eleven PM,” he says, taking another step toward me. “I checked. That’s why I like it. No one to interrupt my work.”

He lunges suddenly, the knife flashing toward my face. I throw myself sideways, the blade whistling past my ear, close enough to feel the displacement of air against my skin. My foot slips on the loose dirt at the edge of the drop-off, and for one heart-stopping moment, I’m sure I’m going to fall. Then my hand finds purchase on a jutting root, and I haul myself back from the edge. I grab some dirt and throw it at his face.

The man recovers quickly, spinning to face me again. “Feisty,” he says, sounding pleased. “I like that. Makes for better pictures.”

He comes at me again, the knife slashing in a wide arc aimed at my chest. I drop to a crouch as the blade passes over my head, then drive upward with all my strength, my shoulder connecting with his stomach. He grunts but doesn’t go down, one hand tangling in my hair and yanking me back to my feet.

“Bad girl,” he hisses, his face inches from mine. His breath smells of mint and something rotten. “Bad girls get punished.”

Yes, I’m bad-ish, but holy fucking hell, I don’t want to be punished by this creep.

He backhands me across the face, the impact sending stars exploding across my vision. I stagger backward, tasting blood where my teeth have cut into the inside of my cheek. Before I can recover, he’s on me again, the knife slashing toward my throat.

“I’m an artist,” he says, unprompted. I can see him now: a camera hanging around his neck alongside the flashlight. “I capture moments of pure emotion. And you, my dear, are going to give me the most authentic moment of all.”

Note to self: primal play is only fun in dark romance novels. Stalkers and killers may look like gods in dark romance, but in reality… they look creepy as heck. The cherry on top is that this guy’s gaze is glazed, slightly crazed, and definitely twisted.

I throw up my arms to block, a searing pain making me gasp as the blade slices across my forearm. The cut isn’t deep, but it burns like fire, blood immediately welling to the surface. I hiss through my teeth, using the moment of his satisfaction to drive my knee up between his legs.

He doubles over with a wheezing sound but doesn’t drop the knife. I follow up with an elbow to the back of his neck, then try to sweep his legs out from under him. He’s expecting it, sidestepping my attack and countering with a slash that would have opened my stomach if I hadn’t leaped backward.

We circle each other, both of us breathing hard, looking for an opening. My arm throbs with each heartbeat, blood running down to drip from my fingertips. The man is smiling again, apparently enjoying our little dance.

“You’re good,” he says, adjusting his grip on the knife. “Most of them just scream and run. It’s boring.”

“Screw you,” I spit, wiping blood from my face with my uninjured arm.

He laughs, the sound sending ice down my spine. “Maybe later,” he says. “After you’re dead.”

He lunges again, and this time I’m not fast enough. The knife catches me across the ribs, the blade slicing through my shirt and shallowly into the flesh beneath. I scream, the sound tearing from my throat as fire erupts along my side. The man uses my moment of distraction to tackle me to the ground, his weight driving the air from my lungs as we hit the forest floor.

We land hard, gravel digging into my back through my torn clothes. The man is on top of me in an instant, one hand closing around my throat while the other keeps the knife well away from my grasping fingers. I buck beneath him, trying to throw him off, but he’s too heavy, too determined. And I’m bleeding from my side. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like he perforated anything, just grazed. Still, it hurts like a bitch.

“Hold still,” he croons, his face inches from mine. His eyes are dilated, pupils so wide they’re almost black. “It’ll be over soon.”

His hand tightens around my throat, cutting off my air. Spots dance at the edges of my vision as I claw desperately at his arm, my nails leaving bloody furrows in his skin. It’s not enough. He’s too strong, too focused on choking the life out of me.

Just as darkness begins to creep in from the edges of my vision, his weight shifts. He releases the knife—dropping it beside us on the gravel—as he reaches for the waistband of my jeans. The implication is clear, and it sends a fresh surge of adrenaline through my system.

No. Fuck no. Not happening.

I stop trying to pry his hand from my throat and instead bring both fists up, driving them into his ears with all my strength. He howls, the sound high and pained, his grip loosening just enough that I can suck in a desperate breath. I follow up with a knee to his groin, then another, not stopping until he rolls off me with a strangled cry.

The knife is right there, gleaming in the moonlight. I grab for it, my fingers closing around the hilt just as the man recovers enough to launch himself at me again. We go down in a tangle of limbs, rolling across the gravel dangerously close to the edge, each fighting for control of the blade.

I end up on the bottom again, the man’s weight pinning me down, his hands around my wrists over my head as he tries to force the knife from my grip. His face is contorted with rage, spittle flying from his lips as he snarls obscenities at me.

I don’t think. I spit in his face. He pulls back and that grants me just enough time to bring my hands down and twist the knife with all my strength, driving it downward into his side. The resistance of his flesh against the blade, the way it slides in with a wet, sucking sound—it’s horrifying, nauseating, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

The man screams, the sound cutting off abruptly as I rip the knife free and stab again, this time aiming for his chest. The blade catches on a rib, skidding sideways to tear a jagged line across his pectoral. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I have to save myself. Blood sprays, hot and coppery, across my face and chest.

He rolls off me, clutching at the wound on his chest, blood bubbling between his fingers. I scramble to my feet, the knife clutched in my white-knuckled grip and advance on him. He’s trying to crawl away, leaving a smeared trail of blood on the gravel, but I’m faster. I catch him with a kick to the ribs that flips him onto his back, as he heaves and screams, then drop to my knees beside him.

“You were going to rape me,” I say, my voice strangely calm despite the hurricane of emotions raging inside me. “You were going to kill me. And your fucking friend is trying to kill Andrew.”

I drive the knife into his groin, once, twice, three times, each thrust accompanied by his increasingly weak screams. By the fourth stab, his trousers are soaked with blood, his cries reduced to whimpers. I stand, watching as he tries to crawl away again, one hand pressed to the ruin between his legs.