The sound of footsteps crunching through snow behind me hits like a bullet.
He’s catching up.
Miguel’s coming.
I press forward harder, slipping once, catching myself against a tree, the rough bark scraping my glove. The key around my wrist jingles, and it sounds as loud as a gunshot in the quiet.
“Caleb…” He croons, his voice carrying through the woods. Not shouting. Just that low, dangerous tone that curls around my name like a promise.
I freeze, turning my head toward the sound.
Miguel’s close enough that I can see flashes of movement through the trees, the faint blue glow of his mask blinking in and out between trunks.
“Keep running, pretty boy,” he says. “Don’t give up. Make me work for it.”
My body reacts before my mind does. I break into another sprint, heart in my throat, the snow dragging at my boots. Every part of me is shaking from cold, from adrenaline, from something else that burns hotter than both.
Branches slap against my coat. My breath turns ragged. I can hear him behind me now, not right on my heels but closing in, steady, measured. He’s not running full-out. He’s pacing himself.
Enjoying it.
Of course he is.
The motherfucker ran track and cross-country for years. Not that he ever did any runs in the snow, but I’m sure he easily adapts.
And I know he still runs.
I duck under a low branch and stumble, falling. My knee hits the snow hard, sending a shock of pain up my leg. I bite down on a groan and push back up, looking over my shoulder.
The faint blue glow pulses between the trees again, closer this time.
“Goddammit,” I curse under my breath and veer right, into a narrower path between the pines. It’s darker here, the light fading fast, the snow thicker. I push forward until my thighs scream and my lungs feel like they’re tearing.
I need to hide.Just for a minute.
Just so I can catch my breath and to make sure my knee isn’t bleeding.
There’s a fallen tree up ahead, half-buried in snow. I drop behind it, crouching low. The world goes quiet again except for the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. The knee of my snow pants is ripped but luckily the thermal pants I’m wearing seem to be intact. A good thing about being in the freezing cold is that the pain is numbed, for now.
My gloves are soaked. My breath comes in short gasps.
I can’t stop shaking.
A faint crunch of footsteps.
Then another.
I press my hand against my mouth, trying to quiet the sound of my breathing.
“Where are you, baby?”
The sound of him calling me baby makes my blood heat. It’s closer, smoother, like he’s smiling underneath the mask.
I can feel him watching and I should be terrified.And I am, in a way.But underneath that is something deeper, hotter, and wrong in all the ways that make sense with him.
Only with him.
If someone else had taken me away to a secluded cabin and told me to run out in the cold… that’s a red flag if I’ve ever seen one.
