"Easy now, Miss Faulks." Donovan's voice. Close to my ear. "You're safe. We're taking you home."
Home.The word is a curse.
"No." It comes out as a whimper. "Please. No."
But he's already lifting me, carrying me like a child. My protests dissolve into incoherent sounds. The world swims, edges blurring.
I must have hit my head harder than I thought.
Other guards surround us as we emerge from the woods. Their flashlights create a bubble of harsh white light. Beyond it, the darkness presses in—hungry, mocking.
So close. I was so close.
The house rises before us, every window ablaze. It looks like a palace. Like a postcard of wealth and privilege.
It's a prison.
Father stands on the front steps. Even from a distance, the rigid set of his shoulders is visible, the tight line of his jaw.
As we approach, his expression shifts—anger morphing into shock. His eyes widen, taking in my appearance.
"My God." His hand reaches toward my face, stops just short of touching. "Look at you. Your face—" His voice cracks. "You're covered in scratches. Are those bruises forming?" His gaze sweeps over me, cataloging damage. The concern in his eyes looks almost real. "You could have been seriously hurt." Softer now. Almost gentle. "Do you understand how dangerous that was?"
I want to laugh. Want to scream. Want to tell him that staying here is more dangerous than any ravine.
But I'm so tired. So broken. The words won't come.
I slump in Donovan's arms, and Father steps back. The concern vanishes, replaced by cold efficiency.
"Take her inside. Call Dr. Morrison. And double the security detail."
They carry me through the door. The marble floor gleams, spotless and cold. My reflection stares back from the polished surface—wild-eyed, disheveled, streaked with blood and dirt.
I don't recognize myself.
Is this what I've become? A desperate animal, clawing at her cage?
The door to my room closes with a final click. Donovan sets me on the bed, surprisingly gentle. Then he's gone, and I'm alone.
Outside, Father's voice carries through the walls. Giving orders. Tightening security.
The walls press closer. The air grows thick.
I've failed.
I'm trapped.
And the wedding looms—sixty-seven days away. I counted this morning, marked it on the calendar like counting down to my execution.
I curl into myself as dawn breaks. The light creeps through the windows, gray and cold. My body aches. Every breath hurts.
The tears come. Harsh, wrenching sobs that shake my frame. Each one tears something loose inside.
But beneath the despair, beneath the pain and fear and exhaustion?—
A spark.
Tiny. Stubborn. Refusing to die.
