I twist to the left. The skirt tears, but I’m still stuck. I reach behind me and grab the bottom of the dress where it bunches around my thighs. I pull hard. The hem rips away. Still not enough room.
I grab more and tear it. My hip scrapes against the fence wire and cuts deep. Blood runs down my leg, but I keep ripping.
One more push. I squeeze my hips through, and then I’m free on the other side. I scramble to my feet. My legs shake so hard I can barely stand. Blood runs down my back and sides and drips onto the ground at my feet.
But I’m through.
The tree line sits fifty yards ahead. If I can reach the woods, I can hide.
My foot lands wrong on something sharp. Pain shoots up my leg. I stumble but catch myself. I grit my teeth and keep running. My feet leave bloody prints on dead leaves and pine needles, but I can’t stop to worry about trails.
The trees swallow me whole. I crash through underbrush that tears at what’s left of my dress. Branches whip my face and arms. Thorns snag in my hair and rip free, taking strands with them. The white silk screams my location to anyone who looks, so I stop behind a massive oak and rip at the skirt with both hands. Layers tear away until I can move freely. The bodice stays because my phone sits tucked inside against my ribs. It’s my only link to Jackal, to rescue, to any hope of survival.
My feet bleed from a dozen cuts. Gashes cross both soles. One deep slice splits my right heel almost to the bone. Every step feels like I’m walking barefoot across broken glass.
Behind me, I hear engines roar to life. Shit.
I push off the tree and run deeper into the woods. No idea where I’m going.
The forest floor slopes down. I half run, half slide down the incline. My foot catches a root hidden under leaves, and I go down hard on my hands and knees. The phone digs into my ribs through the bodice, but I don’t care about the pain. I get up and move. I refuse to stop moving.
A creek cuts through the bottom of the ravine, water running fast and cold over smooth stones. I splash through without hesitation. The water shocks my ruined feet, stings every cut and gash, but it washes away some of the blood. Maybe it’ll throw off the scent if they bring dogs to track me.
The other side of the creek rises steeply, with mud and loose rocks, roots that stick out like handholds placed by someone who wanted to make this climb possible but barely.
I grab the first root and pull. My foot slips in the mud. I catch myself with my other hand, fingernails digging into the earth that crumbles under my grip. I pull again. Climb six inches. My arms scream from the effort. My legs shake so hard I can barely keep my footing on the slick incline.
Halfway up, my grip fails. My bloody hands can’t hold on to the root. I slide back down in a rush of mud and loose rocks, land hard on my ass in the creek. Water soaks through what’s left of my dress.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I want to stay down here, to curl up in this freezing water and let them find me. Let this nightmare be over.
But Jackal’s words echo in my head.You need to get out of there. NOW.
I need to get out of here. Whatever it takes.
I get up, water dripping from my dress and hair. I approach the embankment again, and this time I look for better handholds before I start.
I climb. One handhold at a time. One foothold after another. My muscles burn as if someone has lit them on fire. Twice I almost fall, but I catch myself each time, holding on with every ounce of strength I have left, and keep going up.
At the top, I collapse on flat ground. My chest heaves. My vision swims with black spots at the edges. Can’t rest long. They’re still coming. I can hear engines, shouts, the organized sound of a manhunt closing in.
I force myself to stand and look back through the trees. The compound sits in the distance. My home. My prison. The place where everyone I love still thinks I’m about to become Marcus Stone’s wife.
Dad’s in jail. Jackal is states away. Ash, Ghost, Titan—do they even know I ran? Do they know Dad got arrested?
8
TITAN
Idrain my fourth beer and crush the can in my fist.
“Anyone else think this is the worst fucking idea in club history?” I toss the crushed aluminum toward the trash and miss by three feet. “Because I think this is the worst fucking idea in club history.”
Ghost sits at the cabin’s kitchen table, cleaning his rifle for the third time in an hour. He doesn’t look up. “You’ve mentioned it.”
“Just making sure we’re all on the same page.” I grab another beer from the fridge. “Our girl’s about to marry a psychopath, and we’re sitting here drinking like it’s a normal Saturday.”
