Her hand slid under her pillow and around the cool hilt of her knife.
Without a second thought, she lunged at the looming figure standing above her, a surge of adrenaline overriding any semblance of reason.
The impact was rough, the hardness of the body above her hurting as she tackled them to the ground with a grunt from their chest.
Her mind was a tangled web of panic, the urgency of the moment drowning out all rational thought.
They're hurt. They're hurt. THEY'RE HURT. Her mind screamed as she slammed her body down on the assailant.
She could taste the blood in her mouth, feel the knife in her back, the pain lacing her as frantic panic gripped her close.
She could see nothing, hear nothing.
Only taste blood and feel the ache of the knife in her back.
Her hand tightened around her knife, her other smacking their chest down when they tried to sit up.
She used all her weight to push them back against the hard ground.
Her body flew forward as she used her knees to pin their arms down.
As the lean, muscled form beneath her grappled with the unexpected assault, Ophelia drew the knife up with a swift, practised motion.
The metallic glint of the blade caught the feeble light, casting an ominous gleam in the room.
Before she could bring it down, a large hand emerged from the shadows, catching her wrist in a vice-like grip.
The unexpected contact sent a jolt through Ophelia, freezing her in place.
The warmth and calloused texture of the stranger's hand wrapped around her wrist made her stop.
Their skin felt nice.
Warm.
They weren't moving to attack her, just holding her in place.
The fog of panic began to lift.
Her eyesight came into focus, her smell and hearing returning from a dull haze of white noise.
Sandalwood, leather and honey?
She knew that smell.
Ophelia's gaze focused on the person beneath her as the whiteness from her vision drew back slowly.
She stayed with her knees pinning their biceps down, his scarred arms were twice the size of her legs, but he didn't move, didn't try to hurt her.
He just sat and held her wrist in his massive rough hand, his fingers wrapping around her wrist with ease.
He could snap it if he wanted, easily, like a twig. But he held it steady instead. Firm but gentle.
Her eyes focused on a black sniper hood, leaving only a pair of wide blue eyes exposed.
His skin was bare, with no black paint.
She knew him.
Her eyes tracked over his and the slight amount of skin in the holes of the hood.
Her recognition of who he was trying to surface over the panic that was clawing at her and telling her to fight.
Cream skin. Red-tinged eyes and large grey, blue bruises under them.
He was tired and had been for a while.
The tension in the room shifted as recognition and realization dawned on her.
YOU ARE READING
The Mouse and The Monarch
Fanfiction~She embodied the essence of his world, a captivating masterpiece sculpted with the strokes of both his fervent passion and haunting despair~ Ophelia Moreau. Otherwise known as Mouse. A French Sergeant turned KorTac Operative who has major temper i...
