TAMED | FREENBECKY

3

When the man in the ski mask tore out of the brush to her left, Dr. Becca Armstrong truly regretted not listening to her ex-girlfriend about the dangers of West Gate Park at sunrise. Dasha had never liked Becca's early morning strolls when they were together, so Becca made them a daily ritual after they broke up. As the man intercepted her on the walking path, drawing back his fist with hatred in his eyes, Becca wished she hadn't felt the need to flaunt her newfound freedom. Even with pepper spray in her pocket, she was outmatched.

Becca was reaching for the canister when the man's fist crashed into her nose. The blow tore the glasses from her face, stealing her vision, but she didn't have time to panic before a second punch knocked her off her feet. Her world went into slow motion, up until the moment her back hit the pavement. Then everything sped up: The man grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her toward the trees, and Becca's one recurring thought was that Dasha would be so upset about what would probably happen.

Once they were out of sight of the path, the man threw her onto the ground. Then he was on top of her, pressing the sharp edge of a knife to her throat. "Do I need to use this?"

Becca shook her head and swallowed. He had her arms pinned beneath his bulk, and she would never reach the pepper spray before he sliced her jugular. Her best bet for getting through this alive was to cooperate.

She waited for the inevitable assault to begin. But he stayed still, staring at her with piercing blue eyes that sent sick dread rushing through her. She yearned to turn her face away, but didn't want to move. Not with that cold blade against her neck. Forced to look back up at him, Becca studied what she could make out of his appearance, already thinking about the statement she would give the police if she survived.

"I can do anything I want." His tone made it clear that he wasn't just talking about here and now, but in general. The way he looked at her, like she was less than an animal, made her certain that he wouldn't hesitate to end her life. "Understand?"

Becca's stomach turned over. "Take my purse. Please let me go." She doubted she could talk him out of whatever he had planned, but she couldn't think of anything else to do. If nothing else, she would buy some time, maybe give someone a chance to discover them and intervene. It had to be almost seven o'clock by now, so foot traffic was bound to increase. She just had to keep him talking.

"I don't want your goddamn purse." The knife left her neck and his free hand took its place. He dug his thumb into the center of her throat, restricting her breathing and sending bright pinpricks of agony to her brain. Just when her vision began to dim, the pressure eased and she gasped in relief. "I can do anything. Nobody will stop me."

Eyes burning, Becca whispered, "I have money. And an iPod."

"I don't want your iPod." The man blinked, then bent so close she could feel his breath through the black cotton mask. "I can fuck you. Kill you." He eased back, meeting her gaze again. "Make you cry."

Terror invaded the pit of Becca's stomach and squeezed painfully, loosening a wave of intense nausea. She'd never felt this before, this bone-deep fear: of pain, humiliation, maybe even her own end. She wanted to scream, but the fear held her back. Possibly no one would hear. And she would surely make him angry. The corners of his eyes crinkled. He looked pleased.

"Scared?" He dragged the knife over the center of her chest, snagging her shirt on its tip. Jerking the blade upward, he sliced through the thin material like it was nothing. Becca yelped, then whimpered when his hand shot up and caught her across the face. "Shut up."

Becca turned her head to the side and closed her eyes. Tears threatened to fall, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. He grasped the front of her shirt and widened the tear he'd made with the knife. She waited for him to maul her breasts, then stiffened when instead the wicked edge of the blade traced a path from her cloth-covered nipple to the bare skin that rose above the cup of her bra.