The cloth comes back harder, the chemical burning my eyes, my nose, my throat.
I kick. Claw. My nails rake across the big one’s arm, drawing blood, the sticky warmth of it under my fingers.
He swears. “Little bitch.”
Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, spots dancing, the room tilting like a bad dream.
I think of Aaron, his eyes, his scar, the way he looked at me this morning, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. The way he held me last night, whispering promises against my skin.
The cabin blurs, the cedar walls fading, the fire a distant flicker.
My limbs go heavy, muscles turning to lead.
The last thing I feel is the cold bite of zip ties around my wrists. The plastic is digging into the skin, cutting deep.
The last thing I think is his name.
Aaron.
Then nothing.
Chapter eleven
Aaron
The east fence line is clean.
No fresh tracks. No cut wires. Just the usual deer prints and the occasional coyote scat. The motion ping was probably a false positive, a wind-blown branch, or a raccoon too fat for the infrared. I radio Gray anyway, voice low on the encrypted channel.
“East clear. Heading back.”
Gray’s reply is immediate. “Copy. Hurry. Something feels off.”
I frown, quicken my stride. The sun is already low, bleeding orange across the pastures. The ranch looks peaceful from here. The golden light on the live oaks, cattle grazing slowly, the main house glowing warm against the dusk. But Gray’s instincts are rarely wrong. I break into a jog, boots pounding gravel, the rifle slung across my back bouncing against my plate carrier.
The cabin comes into view.
The front door is hanging off one hinge.
Splinters everywhere.
My stomach drops through the ground.
I sprint.
“Gray, there’s a breach at my cabin. I’m going in.”
No answer. The channel crackles with static.
I hit the porch at a dead run, rifle up, safety off. The doorframe is shattered, the wood blown inward, the lock torn out. I sweep the room. It’s trashed.
Chairs at the kitchen island are overturned. Papers scattered like confetti. The cast-iron skillet I used this morning is on the floor, dented, with blood on the edge. My blood runs cold.
“Megan!”
Silence.
I move fast, clearing the living room, checking corners, sweeping the bedroom. The bed is unmade, like we left it this morning. Her laptop is gone. My flannel, the one she was wearing, is on the floor, ripped at the sleeve.
