They were close to the bridge now, the large dark shape looming closer and closer. Conan was gaining, close now.
“Hey, wait a second!” Conan called in a panting breath, “I have your–”
The man ahead of him tripped, his foot catching on one of the stones. Conan’s heart jumped, worried for a moment he was going to fall. They weren’t far from the water and a dip like that would be nasty.
But he managed to catch himself, stumbling to a stop. It allowed Conan to close the last of the distance, and he slowed.
“Hey, are you okay–” He started, reaching a hand out for the man’s shoulder.
It was only a lifetime of living rough that gave Conan the reaction time to avoid a sudden slash of knife.
It appeared out of nowhere, the dark figure turning on him, hissing, “Let go,” as the knife tried to get him.
Conan did, stepping backwards quickly, reeling away, and his boot caught on one of the stones. He was more focused on the knife coming for him again than his footing, and he fell.
The knife slashed through the air where he’d just been.
“Hey wait!” He tried, ass smarting where he’d landed hard.
But a second later the other man was on him, straddling him. Now he could see it was no pocket knife but a large, serious looking blade. Not something any regular person should carry.
Then Conan was focused only on raising one of his arms to knock the blade aside before it plunged into him. He moved on instinct, avoiding a knifing by a hair, feeling the threads of his jacket catch on the sharp edge of the metal.
He swore as it tore. The jacket was shit for the cold, but it was the only one he had.
Thankfully the fabric had slowed the man’s arm just enough that Conan was able to get a hand around the slender wrist and stop his next attempt.
Above him the man’s face was in shadow, but he could just make out all those pretty features drawn into a snarl. Conan caught the other fist as it went to strike him.
What the fuck was going on? Sure, he’d followed the man out into the dark, but this was not the reaction of someone afraid. When Conan had fallen, he should’ve turned tail and run.
Instead, the man had climbed on top of Conan to try and put a knife in him.
“Hold on, just hold on,” Conan said through gritted teeth. He was holding the man back, but just barely. He was stronger than he looked.
“Let go,” the man demanded. His voice was smooth and steady. Not like a victim trying to be brave, but like someone who knew he was in control of a situation.
It was confusing, and Conan felt his hand holding the man’s knifeless hand loosen to follow the command. He wasn’t willing to let the knife hand go, but maybe they could come to some sort of understanding–
As soon as Conan did it, the hand slipped free, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and bashed his head back against the stone,hard.
Conan saw lights as the pain shocked through him. He let go of the other hand on reflex, groaning, trying to reach for his head. Nausea and sparking pain shot through him with every beat of his heart.Fuck, head injuries were the worst.
The weight on top of him shifted, and he heard sounds he couldn’t place. By the time Conan could blink his eyes open without searing pain, something was closing around his wrists. It was cool and flexible.
Plastic?
It tightened, drawing his wrists together above his head.
Handcuffs.
“Move and I’ll cut your carotid,” the man said. Something kissed his pulse point like ice. The knife.“You’ll bleed out in under two minutes and be dead long before anyone comes.”
Conan blinked, trying to catch up. What the fuck was happening?
“You, uh, use that line on all your dates?” He asked uncertainly.
It worked to cut through the tension. Conan watched the viciousness ease off the man’s face. He now looked curious, assessing.
