Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert) novel Chapter 333

Through the thick fabric of her jacket, Sylvia could hear the sickening thuds of fists meeting flesh, the ugly crunch of twisting bone.

With a metallic clang, a scalpel hit the ground.

Mark didn’t even have time to scream—he just crumpled.

Suddenly, the ropes binding Sylvia’s arms and legs were gone. Weak and barely conscious, she felt herself swept up into someone’s arms.

As she was turned, her jacket slipped from her face. She looked up, dazed, and saw her rescuer.

Rupert.

He looked exactly like the shadowy figure from her memories: pale, cold, his eyes blazing with a lethal intensity.

Sylvia’s hand came up, trembling, and brushed his cheek. She murmured, almost deliriously, “You came to save me…”

She didn’t finish. Her hand dropped, and she slid into darkness.

Rupert’s heart tightened at the sight. He turned, his stare colder than a winter storm, fixing Mark’s body on the ground.

“Orson.”

“Yes, sir.” Orson, shaken by Rupert’s presence, hesitated for a split second before stepping forward, grabbing Mark’s already mangled arm, and slamming him onto the table.

…

Sylvia had no idea how much time had passed when she woke with a jolt of pain in her arm. She opened her eyes to see a stranger injecting something into her vein, the clear medication sliding slowly through the syringe.

Panicked, she tried to pull away, but the man holding her just tightened his grip.

“Let go! Don’t touch me!” Sylvia’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

The arms around her only held her closer, his breath hot on her cheek. “It’s me,” came the low reply.

Rupert.

She hesitated, still shying away from his touch, mumbling, “Don’t… don’t touch me…”

“Enough.” Rupert’s tone was cold as stone, but he loosened his grip when he saw the marks on her wrists.

Enough? If only she had the strength to fight him.

Maybe it was the medicine, but she found some energy. With trembling hands, she shoved Rupert away.

“What if I make a scene? Who are you to me, anyway? Why do you always do this? Why are you always like this?”

She didn’t even know what she meant—just that she was hurt, and angry, and so, so tired.

After her outburst, her vision blurred, and she staggered toward the door.

When he finally pulled back, his dark eyes locked onto hers, voice low and ragged with frustration.

“You tell me—what am I to you?”