Free Kandace and the Beast by Shay Savage Page A

his breath on my neck as he holds me against him, still snickering.  Finally finding my voice, I scream and struggle fruitlessly, and they all just laugh in response.
    “None of that, now,” the man with dreads says.  He covers my mouth with one hand as he rubs his scratchy face against my cheek.  “We’re just gonna have a little fun.”
    He grabs for the top of my bathing suit.  I feel his cold, clammy fingers on my skin, and I want to hurl.  The men begin to talk about what they want to do with me, and the bubble of panic inside my stomach inflates with their words.  What happened to my perfect, peaceful setting?  How had it turned into a nightmare so quickly?
    I hear a loud cry in the distance.
    I turn my head at the same time as my attackers and look toward the noise.  A man is running in our direction from the top of a sand dune.  He’s barefoot, and his strong legs pound the sand as he runs toward us.  His face is a mask of rage, and there is a knife clutched in his hand.
    He’s tall and incredibly well-built.  He’s shirtless, and I can see the clear definition of the muscles in his arms and chest.  His hair is dark, and there’s a couple days’ worth of growth on his face.  He’s racing down the hill at incredible speed, the muscles in his legs flexing as he runs.
    I know who this man is.
    Sebastian Stark.  He’s a champion at death-match tournament fighting.  He’s deeply rooted in organized crime but has been hiding out near Puerto Rico, posing as the captain of a sailing vessel.  No one has heard anything of him since his schooner was lost at sea during a storm months ago.
    That’s not possible…
    The knot in the pit of my stomach hardens.  I look out over the sea—all the way to the horizon.  It’s still a calm, beautiful day.  There are seagulls amassing along the shore and pecking at mussels on the rocks.  The whole scene is all too perfect—all too surreal.  It doesn’t mesh with the arms gripping me from behind or the madman rushing toward us from the dunes.
    And Bastian Stark isn’t a real person.  He’s a character from a novel I read years ago.
    As Bastian approaches the group, he speaks no words.  Instead, he screams as he leaps into the air and collides with the man with dreadlocks.  They crash to the sand, and with a single, swift motion, Bastian shoves his knife into the man’s neck.  The sand is immediately covered in blood.
    I open my mouth to scream, but nothing happens.  I can’t move.  I can’t make a sound.  All I can do is watch.
    There is a flurry of movement.  My eyes can’t keep track of it all, and my feet feel as if they’ve sunk into the sand, leaving me immobile and helpless as I watch the violence in front of me.  The man who was holding me is no longer there—he’s in the middle of the battle with the rest of them—but I can still feel the grip of his fingers around my arms.
    One of the men grabs Bastian from behind, and another swings at him with a switchblade.  Bastian leans back, using his captor as leverage to bring his legs up.  His muscular limbs capture the man holding the knife, and Bastian squeezes him between his thighs.  I hear a sharp crack before the man drops to the ground, lifeless.  Bastian then flips his captor over his shoulders, throwing him into the waves.  I watch the body bob up and down for a moment, struggling against the riptide before it sinks and doesn’t resurface.
    Bastian has the last man—the one with the black ponytail—down on the ground.  He hits him over and over again, alternating punching him in the face with one hand and using the knife to stab him in the neck with the other.  I can’t breathe.  I can only stand there and stare at the carnage as the sand turns red.
    The man is motionless, and his face is a mess of blood and bone.  He’s long dead—I’m sure of it—but Bastian keeps screaming and hitting him.
    “Bastian, stop!” I yell.
    Slowly, he pushes away from the