“W-water,” I murmur, pushing myself onto my elbows with effort, letting my arms tremble just enough. They go rigid, but I keep still. “Please…”
They exchange a look—debating, doubting, deciding whether to oblige me or tell me to rot. The plan is already solidifying in my mind, hardening like stone.
The ginger one—closest to me—stands, and his partner shoots him a glare sharp with panic. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses. “Did you forget what they said about her?”
I wonder what exactly they’ve been told.
The black-haired man narrows his eyes at me, suspicion tightening his face. I answer with a feeble grimace, letting my expression crumble into something fragile and pitiful.
“I ‘member,” the ginger mutters, stepping toward the back of the van. He pulls out a fresh bottle of water and twists the cap. “But we can’t torture her like that. One sip won’t hurt.”
He crosses the van and drops onto the bench beside me, his weight dipping the metal frame. He holds out the bottle, and I push myself upright, letting my movements be shaky but steadying inwardly.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice carrying the faintest tremble of a smile. My fingers curl around the bottle as I raise it to my lips and take a long, greedy swallow. The cold water floods my tongue, slides down my throat, and ignites something fierce and alive inside me once more.
My mind snaps into clarity, the fog thinning. I drag the bottle from my mouth, wetting my lips. He reaches out, wordlessly asking for it. I hand it to him, then, in the same motion, snap it upward, pressing the plastic hard between my palms. Water bursts from the spout in a sharp stream, shooting straight into his eye.
He screams, clutching his face, and I’m already moving on pure instinct. My hand dives for his waistband, fingers closing around the Glock. I rip it free and fire at his partner before he can react.
The gunshot explodes through the van, rattling the metal walls. I swing the weapon back toward the ginger, but even blinded, he lunges at me. The impact knocks the gun from my grip, and I hiss, driving my knee hard into his groin as his arms reach for me.
“Fucking cunt!” he chokes, folding over. I move faster—my hands find his belt buckle, unfastening it with a swift tug and tearing it free.
My elbow slams into his nose with a wet crack. I shift behind him, climbing up his back like a shadow. Looping the belt around his throat, I pull, my arms locked tight around him. His grunt vibrates through me as his hands fly up, one of them slapping across my cheek.
The sting only fuels me.
I haul back on the belt with both hands, tightening the leather until I feel his pulse hammering against the pressure. Heat radiates off him, adrenaline pumping through him in frantic waves as he fights to stay upright, and a small smile splits my face.
I don’t need a man to save me, I never have.
I save myself.
His struggles falter, each movement turning sluggish and desperate. His heartbeat skips erratically, faltering like a dying drum. Breath hitches, shallow and uneven, before fading into nothing. At last, his body crumples beneath me, the life seeping out in a slow, relentless, almost hypnotic unravel.
The instant his body goes limp, the van lurches violently, slamming to a halt. My forehead nearly smashes into the floor as I jolt forward. Clutching the belt, I lift my head, sweat-matted strands clinging to my face. Through the tangled hair, I catch sight of the driver twisting in his seat, the barrel of his gun trained squarely on me.
A shot detonates.
I flinch, body seizing, waiting for darkness to swallow me—waiting for the walls to bleed into black, for the floor to crack open into purgatory.
But nothing shifts. The world stays exactly as it is.
It takes me a moment to realize that the driver is slumped sideways in his seat. Motionless.
I release the belt, letting the limp body beneath me fall. Rising slowly, I freeze when the van door yanks open. Instinct overrides thought as I dive for the fallen Glock, snatching it off the floor and leveling it at the opening.
The moment he peers inside the van, our eyes meet—and in that instant, all logic shatters, leaving only raw, unfiltered emotion.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have all the time in the world,” Cane says, his gaze pinning me in place. “Would you mind coming out so we can move our asses? Their people will be here any second.”
I move before I even register the choice, pushing through the last remnants of fog clinging to my bones. Stepping over the bodies, I climb out of the van.
The night air crashes against me—cold, biting, thick with the remnants of rain. The storm has dwindled to a thin drizzle, yet every inhale carries the sharp tang of thunder.
I don’t think. I lunge, colliding with him, arms wrapping around him so fiercely it teeters on desperation.
“You motherfucker,” I breathe into his shoulder as he wraps his arms around me. “I thought you were dead.”
