Karlyn
The world felt both infinite and suffocating as I pressed onward, the forest swallowing any trace of my passage. I paused, steadying myself against the rough bark of a cedar, listening—not just for threats, but for the quiet reassurance of life continuing somewhere beyond my line of sight. A distant owl called; its haunting cry echoed through the trees, and for a moment, I closed my eyes, letting the sound anchor me. I had learned through hardship and heartbreak that fear was not an enemy but a companion; it meant I was still alive, still fighting. With each measured step, I carried hope like an ember in my chest, daring it to grow brighter against the dark.
I pressed onward, deeper into the thicket, the terrain growing more rugged with each stride. Beneath the cover of intertwining branches, I moved as silently as I could, every nerve alert for the smallest sign of pursuit or sanctuary. I didn’t know what waited ahead, but I knew I could no longer turn back—the path through the forest was now my only way forward.
And that was the ultimate cruelty, wasn’t it?
To be condemned to a path I never wished for, a path that would only lead me further into the darkness I had created, a darkness that had become indistinguishable from myself. I wanted to find a way out, not just of this forest, but of this person I had become. But the forest, like my past, offered no such easy escape.
It demanded a price, and I was already bankrupt.
Still, I kept moving forward. Further and further away from the safety of my brother, the club, the men and women who only wanted to protect me.
The whisper of the wind through the pines mimicked the voices of those I’d left behind, a phantom chorus of concern and urgency. I imagined Daphne’s worried frown, my brother’s stubborn refusal to accept defeat, and Reaper’s gruff, pragmatic concern. They were a world away, a life I had chosen to abandon not out of a lack of love, but out of a desperate need to protect them from the storm that had irrevocably become my own. The forest, once a symbol of his teachings, now felt like a shield, a way to become invisible once more.
The wind picked up, rustling the leaves as it tugged at my clothes—a gentle but insistent invitation to surrender to the wilderness. I paused, remembering his voice, the calm certainty in his tone when he spoke of the forest’s lessons. “Listen,” he’d urged, “and it will guide you.”
I strained my ears, sifting through the symphony of the woods, searching for a sign, a direction, anything that wasn’t just the gnawing emptiness in my gut. The shadows deepened, stretching long and distorted, and I felt a prickle of unease, the same sensation that had drawn me out into the night days ago.
Someone or something was out there, watching me.
My hand instinctively went to the worn hunting knife at my hip, its familiar weight a small comfort against the rising tide of my fear. The lessons of survival, of disappearing into the wild, were about to be put to the ultimate test, and the chilling realization dawned that I hadn’t just left the danger behind; I had walked directly into its heart.
My fear was a cold, familiar companion, but beneath it, a flicker of resolve ignited. He had prepared me for this, for the possibility of needing to disappear, of becoming invisible. He’d taught me to read the signs, to trust my instincts, andto find strength in solitude. Now those lessons were my only armor against a world that was suddenly more dangerous than I had ever imagined. The thought of Jackson, of the lingering questions about him and the phantom hand that had guided me here, was a persistent ache, a reminder of a connection I couldn’t quite grasp but desperately needed.
I pushed myself to move, to continue my silent trek.
A twig snapped.
The dappled moonlight, which had earlier seemed ethereal, now cast long, distorted shadows that twisted and writhed like specters. I knew with a certainty that chilled me to the bone that I was no longer alone.
The forest, which had promised anonymity, now seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the inevitable confrontation. The weight of my decision, the knowledge that I had willingly stepped into this maelstrom, settled heavily upon me. But beneath the fear, a flicker of something else ignited—a fierce, protective instinct, not for myself, but for the fragile memories of those I had left behind.
If this darkness was mine to face, then so be it.
Continuing on, I slowed my steps, ensuring I made no sound as I moved decidedly deeper into the forest. With my knife firmly gripped in my hand, I listened to what the forest was telling me. I knew I wasn’t alone.
Another twig snapped, and it was a jolt of adrenaline that shot through me, an alarm bell ringing in the silence. My breath hitched, my hand tightening around the knife hilt. I could feel it now, a subtle shift in the air, a palpable tension that spoke of unseen eyes. He had taught me this. He had taught me to trust the prickle on my skin; the hairs rising on my arms; the sudden stillness of the surrounding wildlife. The forest wasn’t just trees and leaves; it was a living entity, and it was telling me I was about to face something I couldn’t simply outrun.
I didn’t shout, didn’t break the silence with a warning or a challenge. Instead, I dropped low, melting into the shadows cast by a gnarled oak. The moonlight, which had seemed like a guide, now felt like an enemy, painting me in stark relief against the dark earth. My heart hammered against my ribs, a desperate rhythm against the oppressive quiet. I could hear the faint crunch of leaves, a slow, deliberate approach. Whoever was following me, they were close. And I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that they weren’t here to offer comfort.
My mind flashed to his words: “Surviving is the important thing to remember. As long as you survive to see the sunrise, then you can handle anything that comes your way.” He had prepared me for this moment, for the wilderness that held both danger and salvation. And apparently, the forest wanted to test my strength.
Crouched low to the ground, I listened and waited, as I slowed my heart and controlled my breathing. The crunch of leaves grew louder, closer. I could feel the presence of another human, a predatory stillness that spoke of intent. My instincts screamed danger; a primal urge to fight or flee clawed at me. But he had taught me more than just survival; he had taught me to observe, to analyze, to use the very environment that sought to trap me. I could hear the soft rustle of clothing, the steady, measured breathing of someone who knew how to move unseen.
I remained frozen, a statue carved from fear and resolve, the worn hunting knife a cold weight in my hand. The air thrummed with anticipation; the forest held its breath alongside me.
Who was it?
Had they found me already?
The questions swirled, a tempest in my mind, but the immediate need was to remain unseen, unheard, and above all, alive.
Then, the sound of a snapped twig directly to my right, followed by a low, guttural curse. They had been so focused on my front; they had missed the subtle shift, the way the very ground seemed to warn me. A surge of unexpected triumph, small but potent, coursed through me. He had prepared me for this, too. He had taught me that the forest whispered its secrets, and I was finally learning to listen. With newfound urgency, I melted further into the shadows, as my unknown pursuer stepped under the moonlight, oblivious to the danger that lurked at his feet.
He was tall, well-built and dressed for a trek in the woods. Like me, he carried a backpack on his back and a hunting knife at his waist, yet the rifle on his back gave me pause.
“Fuck,” he growled low as he scanned the forest and vegetation. “Where the hell did she go now?”
