CHAPTER NINE
Before the lambs bleated, they often moved in silence. This was the rhythm of night. Again, his wheels rolled beneath him, a steady drone of rubber against road. He peered from beneath his visored helmet at the figure strolling the shoulder.
He watched the way her hips swayed, her legs stretched. Watched the way she moved. Even from behind, rolling slowly, he knew she was young. Twenties? Most likely. Dark hair. Didn't matter. The hair wasn't the important part.
No—he had more particular tastes. He'd already breezed past another woman, a few hours ago. She hadn't fit his type. And he did have a type. Not one he'd chosen, but one that had chosen him.
His eyes remained hooded behind his helmet, his face itching as it always did along the side of his cheek, down towards his c
