Am I really that tired?
I didn’t feel tired.
The last bits of adrenaline were still running through me, keeping me going. I’d eventually crash, but right now I just felt numb.
Pulling off my hoodie, I laid it aside with my backpack and double checked the locked door. Couldn’t be too careful, especially in a place like this. I unlaced my boots and kicked them off, then peeled off the rest of my clothes.
I looked over my naked reflection, turning this way and that to inspect my pale skin. I managed to make it this far with only a few scratches here and there from traveling through the woods, and for that I was grateful. So many things could have gone wrong from the time I ran out the back door of my house until now.
But I was okay, and I was safe.For now.
With a shaky breath and my mind reeling, I turned on the shower and waited a few seconds for the water to warm. Then I stepped into the angry spray, thankful for decent water pressure. I closed my eyes as the heat soaked into my sore muscles.
Yesterday, I never could have imagined being stranded at a truck stop.
But here I was.
Stuck, alone, and with no way to get where I wanted to go.
I sighed.
All because that bastard sold his soul—andme. He traded my life and my freedom for some cash.
My mind wandered, and I was back in our house again.
“Ari.” My father’s voice drifted down the hall from the living room. “Can you come here?”
I paused the movie I was watching—a delicious romance about a Mafia princess—and tossed the remote aside. Ishuffled across the threadbare rug covering most of the floor, wondering what he could possibly need.
He said he was going to buy groceries, but he’d been gone for a couple of hours. Maybe he needed help unloading the car.
“Coming!” I called.
When I walked in, he was standing in the middle of the living room, wearing slacks and a collared shirt—something he never wore—and his dark hair was neatly combed back. Odd. The last time I’d seen him in anything other than pajamas or his work clothes was at Mom’s funeral four months ago.
I paused in the doorway. There wasn’t a grocery bag in sight.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Come have a seat.” He ignored my question and gestured to one of the thrifted lounge chairs next to him. “We need to talk.”
Alarm bells screamed in my head, but my feet remained rooted to the spot. My intuition had always been wickedly accurate, one of the only perks of my designation, and I didn’t like the way my stomach twisted at his words.
“I’m fine here,” I said. “What do you want to talk about?”
His jaw hardened, and something dark flashed behind his eyes. He hadn’t always been so bitter and easy to anger, but everything changed when my mother died. Over the last few months, he’d slowly changed, morphing into someone I didn’t recognize.
Clearly, he wasn’t happy with my answer.
“Did I do something wrong?” I pressed, and he shook his head.
“Arina, please.” He gestured to the chair more adamantly. “Just sit, and I’ll explain everything.”
I didn’t want to, but something told me I should go along with it. Play along, get answers, go from there.
How bad could it be?
I sat begrudgingly, crossing my arms over my chest.
