Slowly he began to wake.
Night sounds falter, eerily silent . . .
Then not so silent.
Logan could hear the sound of running water.
That instantly snapped him awake and he bolted upright, ignoring the resulting stab of pain between his eyes and the flash of dizziness that made him want to lay straight back down.
The bath where he’d put her to perform first aid on her burn was empty.
She was gone.
All he remembered was Amelia’s eyes growing wide, her shrieking his name, and then something slamming into his head.
Now whoever had broken into her home, set it on fire, and then followed them here had taken her.
Springing to his feet – or staggering might be more accurate – he ran to his bedroom intending to call for help.
Instead he skittered to a stop in the doorway.
Amelia wasn’t gone.
She was here.
Lying naked and spreadeagled on his bed, her wrists and ankles tied to the corners of the bed with rope. The burn on her leg was red, blistered, and peeling, with a kind of yellowy liquid oozing out. On her chest there were bloody marks, as he stepped closer he saw what they were. The marks spelled out a word. Butterfly.
Logan ran to her and touched his fingertips to her neck checking for a pulse.
Relief left him shaking when he found one.
They were both alive.
None of this made any sense. Hopefully when Amelia woke up she could shed some light on this very unusual situation.