"Don’t do anything stupid."
"Too late."
I hang up. “Let’s get her back,” I whisper out loud for no one to hear.
Because this isn’t just about protecting her anymore.
This is about saving the woman I love.
And I will burn the whole fucking world down to bring her home.
11
Greta
The world outside the window is a blur—trees, snow, flashes of road signs swallowed by the storm. My wrists burn from the zip ties. My cheek stings where he backhanded me for trying to open the door when we were still near town.
Travis hums under his breath, calm, steady, like this is a joyride and not a kidnapping. The heater’s broken, so cold air pushes through the vents and bites my skin. The truck smells like oil, cheap air freshener, and his cologne—the same scent that used to cling to my clothes, my sheets, my hair.
I thought I’d never smell it again.
He glances at me, one hand on the steering wheel, the other tapping the gearshift in rhythm with his humming. “You know, I missed you, Bunny. You shouldn’t have run.”
My stomach turns. “You tried to kill me.”
He laughs, sharp and humorless. “Don’t be dramatic. You just didn’t understand what I was doing for us. I had to make you see how much I love you.”
Love. He still calls it that. The word sounds poisoned in his mouth.
He reaches across the seat, his fingers brushing my knee, and I flinch hard enough to hit the door. His smile twitches. “Still skittish. We’ll fix that once we’re out of here.”
“Where are we going?” My voice cracks.
He glances at me again, eyes bright and wild. “Home.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have a home with you.”
He chuckles. “You do. You just forgot.”
The trees thin out as we hit the main road. He drives another hour in silence. My brain is screaming, clawing for a plan, any plan. If Nate’s alive—if he saw what happened—he’ll come. Hehasto. But I can’t shake the image of him falling in the snow, the dart in his neck. His eyes locking on mine as I screamed his name.
He didn’t move after that.
He didn’t get up.
And maybe he never will.
Tears sting my eyes, but I swallow them down. Travis feeds on weakness. Always has. He used to say my crying made me “look small,” like it was an insult.
We pass the last gas station before the ridge, and he turns down an old highway I don’t recognize. The sign says “Eagle Creek Motel — 2 miles.”
When we pull into the lot, I almost laugh. It’s one of those places that look haunted even in daylight. Faded red doors, chippedpaint, one buzzing neon sign that saysVacancylike a warning instead of a welcome.
Travis cuts the engine and pockets the keys before I can even think of running. “Don’t even try,” he says, eyes cutting to me. “I’ve got two men watching the road. You’d freeze before you made it fifty feet.”
He yanks me out of the truck, still holding my arm too tight. The front office is dark. The clerk doesn’t even glance up when Travis slides cash across the counter—probably used to people paying for silence.
Room 6 smells like mildew and cigarettes. The carpet is stained. The wallpaper is peeling. Travis tosses his duffel onto the bed and closes the door with a quiet click.
