The men who took Rylie wanted me reckless.
Desperate.
Predictable.
Instead, I did what Rangers do best.
I disappeared.
Because somewhere, Rylie Tate was waiting for me to rescue her.
And I was going to rescue her before they became angry and started treating her badly.
31
Rylie
Time stopped behaving normally after they left.
Minutes stretched. Then snapped back too fast. My shoulders ached from the restraints, but I welcomed the pain—it kept me anchored. Awake. Aware.
I counted footsteps.
One guard paced every forty-three seconds. Heavy boots. Left foot dragged just a little. Knee injury, maybe old. He stopped at my door twice as long as the others. Curious. Sloppy.
Another set passed less often. Lighter. Faster. Nervous.
That one checked his phone.
I smiled inwardly when I heard the faint buzz through the metal door.
Mistake.
The air in the room shifted when the lights flickered—just once. Barely noticeable. But I noticed. Fluorescent lights didn’t do that unless someone messed with the breaker or overloaded a circuit.
Someone rushed.
Good.
I rolled my wrists again, slow this time. The plastic bit deeper—but the slack on my right hand had increased by a fraction. Not enough to escape.
Enough to bleed.
I let my breathing hitch. Let my head drop forward like the fear had finally won.
Footsteps paused outside the door.
The curious guard.
The lock clicked. The door opened a few inches.
“Hey,” he muttered. “You still breathing?”
I didn’t answer.
The door opened wider.
Second mistake.
