Run. She had to run.
Her feet found purchase on the grass, and she launched herself toward the deck, toward the open door and safety and?—
Arms closed around her from behind, iron-strong, lifting her off her feet. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand clamped over it, cutting off the sound before it could form.
She fought. God, she fought. Kicking backward, thrashing, trying to bite the hand over her mouth. Her nails found skin, and she dug in, felt flesh tear beneath her fingernails. The man grunted but didn't let go.
"Stop fighting," a voice growled in her ear. Male, unfamiliar, cold. "Make this easy on yourself."
Easy? Nothing about being dragged backward into the darkness while her heart hammered and terror flooded every nerve was easy.
She kept fighting. Drove her elbow back into his ribs.
He grunted again. His grip loosened just slightly?—
Something hard connected with the side of her head.
The world exploded into white light and pain. Her legs went weak, and her vision blurred. She tried to hold onto consciousness, tried to keep fighting, but her body wasn't responding anymore.
"Told you to stop," the voice said, distant now, like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel.
Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision. She could feel herself being carried, could feel the cold morning air on her face, but couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything but sink into the blackness that was swallowing her whole.
Her last coherent thought was of Devon. Coming back to find her gone. The open door. The dropped mug on the lawn.
He'd know. He'd know something was wrong.
But would he know in time?
The darkness took her before she could answer.
The vineyard was finally quiet. The last cluster loaded into bins and hauled to the production facility. Dawn was approaching, but the portable lights illuminated the picked rows with harsh brightness, workers moving between them with the tired efficiency of people who'd been at it all night.
Devon pulled off his gloves and shoved them into his back pocket. His shoulders ached, and all he wanted was to get back to the main house and climb into bed with Emery for a few hours of sleep before the day really started.
Bryson appeared from the next row over, looking equally exhausted. "That's the last of it. Thank God."
"We’ve only finished harvesting," Devon said. “The work’s really just beginning.”
"Don't remind me." Bryson fell into step beside him as they headed toward the path that would take them back to the main house. Bryson stretched his arms overhead, his back cracking audibly. "I’m going to finally do it."
"Do what?"
"Propose to Riley."
Devon stopped walking. “Why have you waited this long? We could all use some positivity around here.”
“I could name a dozen reasons, but the biggest one is everything that’s going on with Emery. It just doesn’t feel right with this crap hanging over her head.”
“She’s not your girlfriend—she’s mine—so that’s a dumb reason.”
"I bet if the tables were turned, you’d do the same thing." Bryson nudged Devon's shoulder. "You're good together. I'm glad you finally found someone who makes you stupid happy.”
Devon felt warmth spread through his chest despite the exhaustion. "She does."
"I can tell. You smile more. Stress less." Bryson paused. "Well, you did until someone started trying to kill her. But before that, you were downright pleasant to be around."
"I'm always pleasant."
