Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
I almost tripped at hearing them talking about the mysterious blood part of this ritual but caught myself just in time. I was finally at the lake’s edge. The shore was a mixture of rock, mud, and murky water.
I dropped to my knees so they wouldn’t see me.
Holy f—! I mouthed, managing only at the very last moment to keep my yelp in shock at the freezing cold water on the inside. I bit my lip on the f and clamped down.
Holy Jesus the water was cold. Cold cold cold. And I was extremely naked. No wet suit in sight. Holy Jesus son of Mary and Joseph—
But I couldn’t just hover here, half in, half out of the water.
I lowered myself the last bit into the lake water as quietly as I could. I couldn’t afford any splash.
If I thought it was cold just with my shins in the water—a spine-deep shudder racked my body at the freezing water.
No, I tried to remind my stuttering body—n-n-n-ot f-f-f-reezing. If it was freezing there would be ice. It’s not frozen it just feels that way. It’s not frozen. You can do this. You have to do this.
Get moving.
Get the fuck moving. NOW.
I crawled soundlessly the rest of the way into the lake. Then I scooped some mud from the bottom of the lake and shakily smeared it over my hair, hiding the blonde as well as any residual smell from my shampoo. And then before I could crawl whimpily out of the lake and start screaming at the top of my lungs, “I give up!”, let some old, wrinkly bastard “blood” me, then fuck me with his limp-viagra-made-just-hard-enough-to-fuck-his-trophy-for-the-night-in-a-surely-traumatic-manner just so I could get warm again—
I started to swim.
I would think about the plan. Nothing else could enter my mind. Certainly not the cold seeping so deep into my bones I didn’t know bones went that deep.
The plan. Right. I needed them following the old, stronger scent from when I was still wearing the cloak. I didn’t know a ton about dogs trained for hunting and tracking by scent, but I figured they’d untangle the scents soon enough and be on top of me before I was ready.
The lake was large with several twists and inlets. I could feel the buttplug foxtail dragging in the water behind me, tugging against my anus. I squeezed tighter around it, not wanting to lose it in the water. The fact that I’d forgotten about its presence for even a moment was just more testament of the evening’s insanity.
There was no moon tonight, and with my hair and face covered in mud, I hoped I was effectively invisible against the dark water.
Where was Sully? I suddenly wondered. Was he out there among all the other mounted men, hoping for his chance at first blood?
No time to think about that. Focus. Onwards. One stroke, then another. Don’t disturb the water too much. You’re just another ripple of the wind on a very, very cold, but not-quite freezing, January night.
I stuck to the edge of the lake opposite from where the men were and swum the length of it, back towards the manor house.
Out of the blue, dogs started baying wildly in the distance. Voices raised excitedly.
No doubt they’d located the spot I’d spread the scent around. That meant I didn’t have long before they discovered the cloak in the trees. They’d realize I’d tried to trick them and be twice as resolute to catch me, then doubly furious when they did.
My foot touched down against the lake bottom. I’d made it to the other side. But if I scrambled out, it would be obvious this was where I exited.
I bit my lip, and even though it cost me precious time, I backtracked a little bit to where a low-hanging branch swung out over the water. Even better, tied to the branch was a swinging rope with a couple of knots tied in it, dangling about a foot above the water.
A summer pastime, now my salvation.
Climbing an old, knotty rope while naked and sodden was not my idea of a good time. The drenched buttplug foxtail dragged me backwards down into the water. I had to clench it extra hard to keep it in place.
But last year Tanya had gotten on a health kick, and while we couldn’t afford a gym membership, we were able to create an area on the back porch for what she called Country Strong Cross-Fit (LeAnn nicknamed it Red Neck Cross-Fit)
Tanya tied a rope very similar to this one now confronting me to the ceiling of the porch in addition to other stations—we’d lift concrete blocks, run up and down the country road with ropes attached to old blown out tires slowing us down, and would repurpose any bit or bob we could get our hands on and MacGyver it into workout equipment.