I just run.
The moment I burst outside, the humidity sticks to my skin, clogging my lungs.
I’ll die before I let it slow me down.
A few seconds later, Knox’s growl rips through the night. His heavy footsteps pound after me.
He’s close.
In the distance, Jett whistles. “Go get her, Bro.”
Knox doesn’t answer. He stomps and stomps.
He’s coming.
I have to outsmart him. He’d expect me to go in a straight line. Despite my having a few seconds’ advantage over him, he’ll catch up with me in no time.
The only thing left to do is hide behind the museum’s displays until he gives up.
I sprint by the first house, dart left, right, until I’m behind the exhibits, weaving out of sight.
“Skylar.” His calling is rugged. Harsh.
Hot.
I won’t fall for it. Never again.
He isn’t worth it. Not his hazel eyes, not hisgood girl.
I’m going to survive this, dammit.
Hopefully, he’s out of shape and trying to catch his breath.
Not dead, though. I don’t want Knox dead.
That’s almost as disturbing as the fact that I’m stuck in the Colberts’ version of hell.
Years of therapy will help me work through this. When I’m home.
By the time I make it to the farthest display from the family homes, my lungs are burning. My calves start cramping.
I have a hand on my chest while I sneak a glance at the main path to look for Knox.
No sign of him.
He isn’t here, and yet I’m not alone. A large hand curls around my arm. Another one clamps my mouth shut.
“Shh,” a man whispers while I scream into his palm. I wriggle with everything I have, to no avail. His hand is wrinkled with age. That doesn’t stop him from holding me down effortlessly. “They’ll hear you. I’m here to help.”
I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anyone.
That conviction wavers when I attempt to turn around and look at him, when he actually lets me. His grip on me loosens, but his hand is still on my mouth. Not forcefully; it’s more like a plea. One he articulates when he repeats, “Shh.”
His brown eyes look down at me from above. In many ways, they remind me of Knox’s, except they lack the green, gorgeous specks.
Though they aren’t Knox’s hazel, they still disarm me.
“I don’t condone what they’re doing over there. Have hated it since the start,” the older man mutters. His thick, white hair sticks to his sweat-soaked forehead. “Today, I’ve had it. I’m going to die soon anyway, and what better way to go than to amend my sins? I already called the cops. They should be here within the next thirty minutes.”
