Nora’s still muttering something about it being disrespectful, and I swallow down the urge to scream at her. Does she really think I want to do this? That I’m enjoying rifling through dead men’s clothes for fun? I focus on the pockets, digging through lint, loose change, a crumpled receipt. Nothing of use.
“Damn it,” I hiss, moving on to the next guy and flipping him over. His eyes are closed, at least, which makes it a little easier to stomach. I pat down his pants pockets, and finally—finally—I feel something hard and metallic. I yank it out and nearly cry with relief when I see it’s a small folding knife. “Yes,” I whisper, flipping it open. The blade’s a bit dull, but it’s better than nothing. I scoot back to Nora, holding it out. “Here. I’ll cut them off.”
She hesitates, her eyes darting from me to the knife. “You really think that’s safe?”
I almost laugh at the absurdity of the question. “Do you want to stay tied up?”
She doesn’t argue, just turns around and holds her hands out behind her back. I kneel down, trying to angle the blade just right, sawing through the plastic. It takes longer than I want it to, my hands trembling so badly I drop the knife twice. Finally, the tie snaps, and she pulls her hands free, rubbing her bruised wrists and sniffling.
I fold the knife back up, sticking it into my back pocket. I glance around the pit again, trying to formulate a plan. We can’t just wait here and hope for a miracle.
Suddenly, noise erupts above us—men shouting, angry and loud, and then gunshots. One of them zips into the pit, sending up a thin puff of dust where it hits the ground. I freeze, every muscle locking up. Nora screams, dropping to her knees, hands clasped together like she’s begging for mercy.
I flatten myself against the dirt wall, trying to make myself smaller, trying to stay out of sight. I don’t dare look up, afraid of what I’ll see.
There’s more yelling, heavy footsteps pounding the ground above, and then nothing. Just silence.
Nora is praying again, whispering words under her breath, rocking back and forth. I swallow hard, wiping the sweat and dirt from my face, trying to listen. I don’t know if I’m relieved or terrified. I don’t know what’s waiting for us now.
A few long, painful seconds stretch out, and then?—
“Marlowe!”
I jerk my head up so fast my vision blurs. A figure looms above us, and for a second, I can’t believe it. I’m sure I’m seeing things, that my mind’s playing tricks on me because I want it so badly.
But he drops to his knees at the edge of the pit, his hands gripping the loose dirt, and his face comes into focus.
Damian.
His eyes scan the pit, wild and desperate, and then they land on me. He doesn’t move, just stares, his chest heaving like he just ran miles.
“You’re alive,” he breathes, his voice rough, almost like it hurts to say.
A sob breaks out of me. I press my hands to my mouth, trying to keep it together. His face blurs through my tears. I never thought?—
He lowers himself to the ground, leaning over the edge of the pit, his hand reaching down. “Grab hold of me,” he says, voice steadier.
I lunge for his hand, gripping it with both of mine, my fingers trembling. His grip is strong, grounding. Damian starts to pull me up, muscles flexing with the effort, his jaw set with determination. I’m halfway up when Bridger appears next to him, leaning down to help. Together, they haul me out, the strain evident in their movements.
My legs scrape against the rough dirt wall, and I kick to get a foothold, desperate to get out. I don’t care that the rocks cut into my skin, don’t care that my hands burn from the effort. I just want to be out of that hole, away from the suffocating fear.
When I finally make it over the edge, I collapse onto the ground, gasping for air, dirt and sweat sticking to my skin. Damian drops down next to me, one hand resting on my back, his touch firm and reassuring, like he’s making sure I’m not going to disappear.
I turn my head to look at him, and his face is inches from mine, eyes searching, dark and intense. He swipes a thumb over my cheek, wiping away a smudge of dirt. I feel his hand tremble for just a second before he steadies it, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“Thought I was too late,” he murmurs, barely audible, but I hear the crack in his voice.
I can’t talk. I just nod, tears spilling over again. I lean into his touch, needing the solidness of him, the heat of his palm grounding me.
Bridger moves past us, leaning over the pit again. “There’s someone else down there,” he calls, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “You okay?”
Nora’s muffled sobs echo up from below. “Please,” she whispers, voice trembling. “Please, help me.”
Bridger glances at me before lowering himself carefully, one knee on the ground as he reaches down. “I got you. Just give me your hands.”
Damian’s forehead brushes mine, his breathing ragged. “I didn’t know if I’d get here in time,” he admits, voice raw. “But I wasn’t going to stop until I found you.”
The ache in my chest swells, and I lean into his touch, my hands clutching his wrist, holding on for dear life. “I didn’t think you’d come back. I thought . . . I thought you left me.”
