The Gender Game by Bella Forrest (motivational novels .TXT) 📕

relief as Viggo's face emerged, illuminated by soft shafts of moonlight. His eyes gleamed with anxiety as he took in my bloodied state.

"Whose blood is that?" he uttered in a strained whisper.

I looked toward the stream and pointed to the corpse of the man whose throat I'd torn open. Then I spotted the knife, still coated with blood. It had fallen on the ground, not far away.

Shouts of wardens drifted down from the slope. Viggo cursed. Throwing a sharp glance in their direction, he hurried into the stream and dragged the corpse out. Then he scooped up the knife. Wrapping his hands around its handle, to my shock, he drove it back into the dead man's throat.

Leaving the blade erect, he leapt toward me, slipping one strong arm beneath my knees, the other wrapping around my waist. Then he picked me up and began to run with me.

But not in the direction I'd expected him to; not back up the slope he'd come from. Instead, confusingly, he dashed across the stream and reached the opposite side. Shooting another look over his shoulder toward his rapidly approaching colleagues, he hurtled into the woods with me. The same woods the Porteque men were escaping into. The same woods the wardens were firing bullets toward. One hissed past us now, frighteningly close.

"Viggo," I panted. "What—?"

"Don't talk," he breathed, his eyes trained ahead of us.

I clung to him more tightly as the slope on this side steepened. I pulled myself closer against him, my bloodied hands slipping against the skin behind his neck.

My heart hammered as I caught sight of silhouettes of the Porteque gang up ahead.

What is Viggo thinking? Is he going after them? While carrying me? Has he gone mad?

As I had become almost fully convinced that he was chasing after the criminals, Viggo's direction diverged from them. He swerved diagonally to our left, while they were moving decidedly right.

The trees became denser as he continued to run, and the bullets no longer reached us. The gunshots grew fainter, and the loudest noises became Viggo's heavy boots crunching in the brushwood and his harried breathing so close to my ear. I could practically feel his heart pounding against me.

I had never witnessed Viggo so tense. For the first time since I'd met him, he showed fear.

I needed first aid. I needed to visit a hospital.

The gushing of water came within earshot. Then a clearing came into view, through which ran a river. Its surface glistened in the moonlight as we approached. Finally, Viggo came to a stop.

He looked down at me. "Can you stand?"

"I-I'm not sure."

He exhaled. "Okay."

Lowering me gently, he seated me at the edge of the bank. He proceeded to remove his coat, belt and gun and hang it on a branch. Then he returned to me, wearing the same shirt and pants he'd worn earlier in the day before the fight. He sat down next to me and swung his legs into the water and the next thing I knew, he'd dropped into it, submerging his upper chest, still fully clothed. Apparently, he was tall—and steady—enough to touch the bottom, even with the current.

He winced. "It's cold. But we have to get you cleaned up. There was no time back in that stream."

I examined myself more closely. It wasn't just my hands, arms and face that had gotten splattered with the blood. There were stains on my neck, upper chest, lower torso and clothes. I removed the torn garments, balled them up, and discarded them in the river. Now I wore only my underwear, which was also stained.

"Come," he coaxed softly.

My body tensed up as I slipped off the bank's edge, into his open arms. My chest constricted, my skin breaking out in goosebumps. I wound my arms around Viggo's neck and pulled my body flush against his, for support amidst the current, and for warmth.

"You're worried I could be punished for killing that man?" I panted against his hair.

I felt him swallow against my shoulder. A pause ensued.

"Do you want to know what happened to Miriam? My wife?" His voice was hoarse.

"What?" I whispered, as my stomach clenched with guilt at the thought that I already knew.

"She was hanged for defending herself in a situation not all that different from this. She killed an attacker without a neutral witness." Viggo's chest heaved beneath me. I sensed an undercurrent of guilt to his tone. Does he blame himself for her death? "I… I'm not saying the same insane rule would apply to you. Even the court doesn't care much about what happens to these Porteque dregs. But it's not worth the risk."

He created a few inches' gap between us. His eyes studied my arms before he began to run a palm along them, down to my hands, rinsing me of the blood. The current was doing a good job of cleaning my torso and chest on its own.

"I'll say I killed him if anyone questions it," he continued. "I planted my handprint on the knife."

"There'll be no consequences for you?"

"None to speak of."

"How will you explain both of us being sopping wet when we return?" I asked, shivering as one of his hands ascended to tenderly brush against the side of my face.

"I'll tell them one of the guys split from the group with you, and I found the two of you crossing a river, where I headed him off. He got away, but I managed to get a hold of you."

"You're a good liar."

He gritted his teeth and held my gaze. “Sometimes that's what's required to do what is right in Patrus."

I looked down, experiencing a spike of discomfort.

"Okay. I think you're done." He gathered me to him and moved us back to the bank. Climbing out, he settled me on the ground before heading to the branch where he'd hung his possessions. He retrieved the coat and brought it to me, hanging its heavy weight around my shoulders. The smell of him immediately made me feel