Chapter 2

Sore. Achingly sore. Those two words perfectly fit the description of the way she was feeling, like she'd been through the spin cycle of a dryer. Even her hair hurt. A long, low rumble left her sandy throat "Ohhh, what the hell happened…?" When no one answered her whispered words, other senses kicked in. Christine smelled stale air and what could only be described as something found in a old gym bag left under the sun too long.

She was on a bed, at least it felt like a bed, and it was comfortable enough so that her muddled brain didn't want to completely wake up, yet. Wisps of memories made her brows draw into a frown. It was a dream, right? She didn't hear anything other than a low breathing sound and running water from somewhere.

He had watched her from his seat across the room since yesterday, from the moment he had brought her home. Michael had walked down that incline to her motionless body, his only thought to plunge his knife into her abdomen and rip her open, to feel her last breath, the warmth leave her, feel her cooling blood soak his clothing… He had been prepared. So ready. The blade poised a few inches above her, and then…nothing… Her unfocused eyes opened for a moment, she reached for him, and just…fainted. Michael had no idea why she'd done that, it had never happened before. Ever. He found that he couldn't do it then, because…well…hell if he knew.

Low breathing? She sat up so fast her head spun. Christine pressed her fingers to her eyes and moaned miserably. It took a few long minutes for the world to stop tilting wildly on its axis. A rustling of fabric and the now already very familiar breathing pattern made her hands drop and face lift achingly slow. She had a horrifying suspicion of what, or rather who, she would see. And she was right. It took every ounce of willpower Christine possessed not to scream her head off, bolt from her position on the mattress or start wailing huddled in the fetal position. Though the need to do so was almost overwhelming when he stood up and stepped two paces in her direction, knife at the ready, to slash her throat if she as much as blinked funny.

The lights in the small brick room were enough for her to see his eyes, not just the masks empty gaze, and to be honest, she didn't really think there was much of a difference. Michaels almost midnight black, and oddly enough, intelligent looking eyes were the most emotionless she had ever seen in her life. They pinned her down with an unmoving stare and yet seemed to be aware of her every twitch. It was unnerving, the way he didn't even blink, and stood as if carved from immovable granite.

Carefully removing the tattered, moth eaten old blanket from her legs, Christine very slowly placed her feet on solid ground. Keeping constant eye contact with him, she kept her hands visible as she stood, and immediately pitched forward with a painful yelp. Before she could bat an eye, she had her back pressed into the floor with a knife at her throat and a very large terrifying man looming over her. She froze, barely breathing.

Michael for his part, found himself conflicted for the second time in his life, both instances barely forty-eight hours apart. He wanted to kill her. It would be so easy, so effortless, so beautifully quick, and yet… He stared at her wide gray eyes, could feel her racing heart and practically smell the fear emanating from her tense body. Yes, so easy. His hand tightened on the knife, nicking her fragile white throat. For a moment he fixated on the drop of blood making its way over her skin. A sharply indrawn breath made his eyes move back to hers. Her tongue snaked out to wet dry lips that whispered "I'm t-t-thirsty. Please, c-can…can I have s-some water." His head tilted. Her words were the last thing he expected. She was supposed to be fighting him, screaming and trying everything imaginable to get away. So why, wasn't she? Damn it, he didn't understand it. Or her.

She could have wept from relief as the knife slowly moved away from her, followed by his body. A tiny part of her protested the loss of his warm weight. She savagely buried that ludicrous though, focusing instead on getting back on the dilapidated bed. Her right ankle was throbbing like a sore tooth, she also felt cold. Probing her limb with deft fingers, a relieved sighed escaped her. Finally, a silver lining. Thank god, it's not broken. Christine wasn't an expert, but she'd seen and helped treat quite a few sprained, broken and dislocated limbs in her short career, enough to know the differences between injuries. She glanced over her scratches, bruises and deeper cuts, making a mental note of what was where and what would be need to treat the worst of them, all the while intensely aware of him standing there the whole time.

Keeping her head bowed, she murmured quietly "Do you have anything I could use for my injuries, some gauze and bandages? Peroxide maybe, or some strong liquor?" Silence. Looking up hesitantly, Christine failed to suppress the wisp of fear that snaked up her spine as her nervous gaze met his steady one, almost jumping a foot when his knife slashed through the air. Tracing the blades razor length with wide weary eyes, it dawned on her after a suspended breath - he was pointing at something. She stared at a beat up chest of drawers at the head of the bed.

A little apprehensive, Christine scooted over to it, cringing with a hiss every time her sprained ankle jostled at the small movement. The first drawer overflowed with an assortment of candy, beef jerky, bottled drinks and a heap of other junk food. At least I won't starve. She took out a bottle of water, then moved on to the next drawer after quenching her thirst. Her brows rose to her hairline, this one was full of knives, all of them different shapes and sizes. She pushed the panel closed in a hurry. I really don't need to give him any ideas. Pulling the last drawer open, Christine smiled slightly, relieved at the sight of wrapped gauze, bandages, thin medical scissors, antiseptic and assortment of pill bottles. Taking out what she needed, she didn't touch the pills, wondering where he got them, deciding after a split second that she really didn't want to know. She ignored him while she worked, or at least tried to. It was hard to ignore a deadly shadow hovering over you.

Michael could see she kept sneaking discreet glances in his direction every few moments. To make sure he hadn't moved perhaps? What would she do it he did? He was almost tempted to fund out, he liked the way her eyes widened and filled with primal fear. His own narrowed a fraction as she removed her torn sweatshirt, revealing a thin white sleeveless top covered in red smudges here and there, trying unsuccessfully to tend her shoulders. She was useless, fragile and a hindrance. His fingers tightened.

Christine threw the piece of gauze on the bed in disgust. Great. Wonderful. Perfect. I can't reach it. She was inclined to leave it alone. But what if it got infected? Damn. Resigned, she turned on the bed, presenting her back to her captor, sighing "Would you…?" faltering, she held up a piece of gauze covered in a tiny amount of antiseptic in one hand and a bandage in the other. Waiting for what seemed like an eternity, and about to turn her head to look over her shoulder… Christine flinched as he took the items, roughly moving through the motions of cleaning and covering the larger cuts. Her right shoulder was throbbing. By the time he was done, she was sweating and exhausted. Sleep sounded like a very good idea.

Lying down, she turned away from him and closed her eyes, remembering bits and pieces from what she'd heard about him years ago. His behavior screamed controlling, antisocial and introverted. The words psychopath, soulless devil and mass murderer stood out. Christine knew he didn't speak, hadn't in fact spoken in twenty six years. Knew he'd killed more people then she cared to speculate about. What she didn't know however, was why he didn't just kill her? No mistake, she was happy about it, but it still didn't make a lick of sense. And frankly, it scared her to death too. What could he possibly want with her? Christine didn't delude herself, she wasn't special and she knew without a shred of doubt that he didn't care a fig about her. So what happened that stopped him?

Hours later, erratic breathing and occasional rearranging on the bed told him she was for some reason uncomfortable. He had moved from his position beside the bed, to sit in his customary corner, the ever present blade within close reach. Michael didn't trust her not to try something. Though somehow, a part of him knew she would be patient, would bide her time until her body healed enough before forming and executing a plan of escape. He'd learned that much about her over his week-long observations. He was looking forward to it. Perhaps then she'd give him reason enough… His head tilted. She'd turned to him and was mumbling incoherently.

In a moment of lucidity, Christine's eyes opened and words tumbled quietly from her mouth "I… Michael. Hot. Too hot. You…cool…fever." She barely felt it when he lifted her up, blinking dazedly at the spinning ceiling. A glint of silver flashed above her, but she couldn't seem to find a reason to care. Let him kill her if he wished. She just hoped she'd leave a huge mess for him to clean up. A tearing sound made her head loll in the crook of his strong arm. Why was he cutting her clothes off? Christine got her answer when a splash of cool water touched her heated skin, and screamed from the shock of it. The fact that she was naked from the waist up didn't even register as important in her mind at the moment.

He held her firmly as she thrashed around kicking and screaming. Ignoring it, Michael kept pouring water over her flushed body. He didn't know why he was doing this. Why it mattered that she lived. It just did. For now. It took a while for her to finally stop tossing around. His whole body stilled and his eyes snapped forward. She was clutching his jumpsuit collar, pressing her face into his neck, whispering "I-I-I don't understand…." His grip tightened. Her fisted fingers relaxed, then moved up to his shoulder slowly, flexing feebly on the side of his neck. It seemed she didn't have the strength to injure him properly. He barely noticed his hands clenching as she pressed closer to him, mumbling "Michael. My Michael." He tolerated her fleeting touches with a confused curiosity. It was strange and odd. It ended as soon as her fingers ghosted over the cheek of his mask.

Before she could comprehend what she'd been doing, Christine found herself face down on the cold floor. Relaxing against it, a sigh raised dust in front of her face. She barely noticed, the concrete was so blessedly cool. She stiffened as her tired bleary gaze focused on a small skull with empty eye sockets and elongated front teeth, its tiny bones scattered haphazardly all around. Why hadn't she noticed them before? Its gruesome visage was like a sobering slap in the face. It mocked her. Foremost it mocked that small moment of piece and comfort she'd felt in his arms. A modicum of sense returned, and with it anger sparked in her muddled brain.

She fought him when he grabbed her arms and hauled her up "Let me go! Stop it! Let me go Michael!" Managing to get one of her arms free, she was quickly spun around and crushed against his chest. Christine ignored his painful grip on her arms and pushed against him frantically, pounding with tight fists, shouting "WHY? Damn you! Why did you have to bring me here? I want to go home!" She might as well have been pounding on the brick walls for all the affect it had.

His patience gone, Michael threw her on the bed and pinned her down roughly. Straining against him, she glared up at his blurry mask "I'm not staying here Michael! The first chance I see, I'm getting out of here! Do you hear me? You can't keep me like this forever!" Breathing hard, and with most of her energy used up from the struggle, fatigue made her sag into the mattress. No matter what, Christine still kept her unfocused glare clashed with his. It drove her mad that he was so calm and silent, not even a blink to know what he was thinking.

What infuriated even more though was her body's traitorous response to him. Closing her eyes tightly, she turned her head away from his cold stare. A different kind of warmth was spreading inside her, the longer Christine felt his firm thighs on either side of her own, his hands pressing hers into the bed with a painfully strong grip above her head. His musky scent filled her senses and cruelly tested her already strained resolve to keep her distance. I can't let this happen…even though he makes me...oh god no…I can't…but I want to… logic warred with emotion.

Christine gasped as the desire to touch him slammed through her like electricity, when he shifted his weight almost imperceptibly. If she weren't so attuned to his every breath, she would have missed it. Looking up at him through her lashes, her back arched of its own volition at the unwavering black gaze emotionlessly roving her exposed chest. Christine silently cursed him, and her own weakness.

He noticed the change. Instinctively, his grip tightened on her wrists and his hips pressed firmly into her own. It made his stomach clench and sent a jolt of awareness through him that Michael didn't want to understand. He quickly drew away from her with narrowed eyes, waiting to see what she would do. He didn't know why he became…displeased, when she turned on her side and drew the blanket over her head. Turning away, the only indications of his inner turmoil were the tightly fisted hands by his sides. Damn her. She was becoming more dangerous by the moment…