Clouds seemed to drift apart in that moment; the sun dropped and the moon was rising, rays of dusk light streamed through the trees and the blade gleamed in the glow. Lyra’s eyes widened, her hopes dashed, and her spirit sank. Kane gazed icily on his victim; her lip quivered with fear. All their lips quivered in those last moments. It always excited him, but he felt much more than excitement now; her suffering aroused him furiously.
He lowered the blade steadily and brushed it against her cheek; she winced away from the cold steel and whimpered softly. Kane scraped the blade lower, caressing her neck with the threat of death. Lyra shuddered and tears fell heavily from her wide, fearful eyes. He pulled the blade across her throat, exerting enough pressure to cause discomfort, but not enough to cut. The blade was then dropped to her shoulders and brushed against her chest. He thought again of her breasts moving up and down in her sleep, her cold, pointed nipples, her body curling under the warmth he had provided.
The blade moved further down, scraping her hips and thighs. Lyra grimaced under the hulking body of the menacing beast.
‘Kane!’ she called in desperation. Kane snapped his head to look at her. ‘Kane, please don’t hurt me,’ she whimpered. Her begging aroused him further. Lyra had distracted him; it was a last-ditch attempt to escape and it seemed to be working. He stared at her; in the evening glimmer, she could see one blue eye gazing through the mask. ‘Kane, please,’ she whispered.
Kane watched as Lyra finally struggled to her feet; he towered over her and she knew that he could kill her with one blow from those powerful, gloved hands. ‘Kane,’ Lyra mumbled again. He seemed to respond to his name. ‘I will leave if that’s what you want!’ Lyra waited for a response, but he was motionless, the only visible movement from his deep, angry breaths. Lyra stepped backwards cautiously; he did not move. She stepped again, all the time glancing vigilantly from his eyes to the weapon and back again. The sheriff had warned her that those who see Kane do not live to tell about it, and she was in no doubt that he was toying with her.
Again, Lyra took a step backwards. Kane twisted the machete in his hands, and she stopped moving. He was too close for her to escape. If he threw the blade, he would kill her instantly. She had to get some distance between them; that was the only chance she had. ‘Please, Kane, let me go.’ Kane listened to her pleas; he had no intention of letting Lyra leave his woods, not now, not ever. Lyra shifted forward, closing the gap between them. ‘Kane,’ he tilted his head, ‘please don’t hurt me.’ Beautiful, her begging was a melody to his ears.
Lyra placed her hands on Kane’s chest and he recoiled; no one had ever touched him with such gentleness. ‘Kane,’ she whispered. He loomed over her and dropped his head just above hers; Lyra gulped. He was terrifying, especially that close. She turned her head away from him, but he moved in menacingly, measuring up to her in a fearful manner. Her scent filled him; Kane breathed it in, her fear-filled scent so powerful. He nudged his head closer to her face; the mask brushed against her and she shivered. Kane loosened the grip on his machete. Lyra realised that this was her only chance to escape. With all her might, she raised her knee, jarring it spitefully into his crotch. He buckled for a brief second, long enough for Lyra to turn on her heel and run.
Rage filled Kane; he had allowed himself to be vulnerable just for an instant, almost made a connection, and this was how he had been repaid. She would suffer for this. Lyra scrambled up the bank with a newfound willpower. She had angered the beast; her only chance was to escape into the night, but this was his wilderness and he had the advantage. Muddied and wet, she managed to negotiate the bank and ran rapidly into the shadows of the trees. There were no footsteps. Hiding behind the huge trunk of a tree, she scanned the forest for any sign of Kane. There was none.
Lyra tried to gain some sense of direction. She had come from Kane’s cabin, which lay west of her cabin. Through the thumping sound of her heart in her head, Lyra reasoned that if she travelled east, she would find her way back to her cabin, and then she could follow the trail out of Maple Lake, hiding in the shade of the woods. Rapidly, she darted from tree to tree, checking her surroundings with each movement. Her senses were heightened, and she was vigilant. Her mind started to wander as she moved; the monster could have dispatched her twice now, but had chosen to let her live. She thought of his firm body looming above her, the tension when he had taken the measure of her. It felt almost possessive, desirous.
The wrath consumed Kane; he wanted to make Lyra suffer. He could kill her and be done with her. He could choke her until the life left her eyes and watch as she writhed under his grasp. The thought awakened the demon within him. Rage burned through his whole being. He watched as Lyra darted from tree to tree; she would have to return to the cabin and the shafts to have any chance of finding her way home. Kane was patient; he would wait long enough to allow her to believe that she was almost safe, then she would suffer.
Lyra could make out the lights coming from Kane’s cabin through the clearing. She looked around her again; Kane was nowhere to be seen. Lyra listened for the sound of his footsteps, nothing. She moved again from tree to tree until she was almost at the cabin. Perhaps he had released her.
Kane followed silently in the shadows. He watched and waited until she was in the vicinity of his home, the home this woman had invaded. He had hoped that she was different, but she was no different. She just wanted to hurt him like the children did in his youth, like the counsellors who had killed his mother and the visitors who come to visit the legendary Maple Lake. This woman was no different; she was a threat. Kane thought back to the previous night; she had looked so soft and gentle and fragile. She was fragile; he had seen her work, seen inside of her mind. There was something deep within her soul that screamed out to be saved, but she had hurt him. Conflicting thoughts fought through Kane’s enraged mind, and he prowled about the trees, silently circling his prey.
A branch snapped in the surrounding trees. Lyra froze in the shelter of one of the trees that she had used for protection. The footsteps resumed, heavily crunching on the forest floor. The rain stopped abruptly. Lyra listened, leaning deeply into the bark; the snapping and crunching continued. It seemed to be coming from all around her. She carefully leaned around the curve of the tree, but she could not see him. Kane had come full circle and stood watching her futile attempts to outmanoeuvre him from the side of his cabin. He had deliberately made enough noise to further flood her with fear.
With dainty steps, Lyra slid to the other side of the trunk and stared into the darkness. Heavy footsteps rushed in on her; she turned to see Kane running with the machete swung majestically above his head, ready to strike. A scream escaped from her lips. He could kill her now and be done with it; these feelings would be gone, and he could live in peace. Alone, but in peace. He moved furiously towards her, ready to strike her down. His eyes met with her terrified, pleading hazel eyes, and he thrust the blade forward.
The machete struck and drove deep. Its blade wedged in with an inhuman ferocity. The hilt hung out of the trunk within an inch of Lyra’s head. Lyra’s body was shaking with the shock of seeing the blade coming towards her. Kane leaned over her, placing his hands either side of her face. His blood boiled with rage, rage and a newfound uneasy tension, an unsated desire. His head drooped to hers and he measured himself up to her again. This time, she recoiled; this time, she had felt the awesome power and fullness of his wrath. Lyra sobbed as he pushed the mask against her.
Kane looked down at her; she despised him like all of the others. She could not bear to look at him, could not bear him touching her, and he wanted to touch her. Kane lowered his right hand and touched her cheek; Lyra moved away from his touch. She was beyond terrified.
‘Kane,’ she sobbed. Kane tilted his head to touch hers. The woman was trying to distract him again, but he would not be fooled a second time. He dropped his hand from her cheek to her throat. His fingers opened and he gripped her delicate neck tightly; in one swift, aggressive movement, he lifted her from the ground and tightened his grip.
Lyra struggled against the brute, but he was far too strong for her. She kicked and writhed against him, but her airway was closing. Her legs stopped flailing with exhaustion; Lyra felt herself giving up. Her body went limp and Kane tightened his grip. He had ended many lives with his hands, watched his victims fall beneath his strength and delighted in the moment of their demise. Lyra mustered the last of her strength and reached her hand around Kane’s neck; her fingers lightly stroked him. Kane shuddered under her touch; his grip automatically tightened in response to his arousal. Lyra’s vision started to fade.
‘Kane, save me,’ she pleaded, and her eyes closed, sinking her into a blackness.
Her body slumped into an unconscious stupor. Her words echoed through Kane’s mind: Kane, save me. The beast loosened his grip and watched as her body slid to the ground in a helpless heap. Kane glanced at his blade and then back to his victim. The urge to kill her was overwhelming, but something held the demon at bay. He reached up and yanked the knife from the bark. He touched the blade to her throat. She was defenceless, totally at his mercy.
Kane rarely killed anyone who was not fully conscious; he relished in the hunt. On the odd occasion, he had slaughtered a stoned girl, but generally, he would wait until they woke to terrorise them. This girl was terrorising him; she made him feel urges beyond his usual bloodlust. This was alien to him. He pulled the blade upwards; he could drive it through her. Kane, save me. The words tore through his soul. He lowered himself down to the ground and scooped her up in his arms, dangling the machete from his fingers beneath her limp body. Her head hung over the crook of one arm, and her legs hung over the other. Kane lifted her effortlessly and carried her to his cabin.
Inside the door of the cabin, Kane leaned his machete up against the wall. He looked down at his victim, his woman; he breathed heavily, unsure as to what to do. Gently, he placed her body on his sofa, tilting her head back over the arm of the chair. His fingers had left marks on her pretty throat. She was filthy, bloodied and hurt. Kane raised his mask from his face and stared down at her. She was soaking; he quickly fetched some rags and sheets from his room and a bowl of water to clean and dry her.
