I’m getting out. I don’t care how. I don’t care what breaks.
He took me once.
He doesn’t get to take the rest.
And I will make him pay for this.
The car slows. Not just slowing—dragging, bumping over something uneven. My body bounces with each jolt. Dirt road. Has to be. We’re somewhere remote, somewhere no one will hear me if I scream. My stomach twists so hard I feel sick.
This is it. My moment—maybe my only one.
I force my eyes shut again and focus on the sounds around me. The engine dies. For a heartbeat, everything is agonizingly still. Then the driver’s door squeals open. Footsteps crunch around the car, slow and confident, like he’s in no rush because he thinks I’m not going anywhere.
My heart is slamming so violently, I’m sure he’ll hear it through the metal.
A key scrapes. The latch pops. The trunk swings open, and warm daylight hits my face. I stay limp, breathing shallow, trying to look unconscious. My skin tingles from adrenaline, every muscle coiled and ready.
He mutters something—too low, too bored, like I’m nothing but cargo—and leans in. His hand reaches for me.
Now. NOW.
I shoot my foot up with everything I have. My heel smashes into his face. There’s a sick crack, a grunt, and he stumbles backward. I don’t think—I just move. I scramble out of the trunk, hit the ground so hard my teeth clack, and try to run, but he grabs for my arm.
I swing. Wild. Desperate. My fist connects with his cheekbone, and a bolt of pain shoots up my hand so sharp I almost scream. It feels like my knuckles shatter, but he reels back, holding his face.
That’s all I need.
I sprint. I don’t look where I’m going—I hurl myself into the trees, branches whipping at my arms and tearing at my clothes. I can hear him behind me. Swearing. Shouting. Crashing through the brush.
He’s close. Too close.
My lungs burn. My legs shake. Every instinct in my body is screamingRUN, but fear is crawling up my throat, threatening to choke me. If he catches me—
No. I don’t let myself finish the thought.
I pump my arms harder. I run like my life depends on it.
Because it does.
Branches whip across my cheeks as I tear deeper into the forest. My breath comes in sharp, broken bursts. Every inhale feels like knives. My legs are trembling, threatening to buckle, but fear keeps dragging me forward. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I can’t stop.
Behind me, I hear him crashing through the underbrush. He’s slower but heavier, the kind of runner who doesn’t need speed because he’s confident he’ll get what he wants eventually. His voice cuts through the trees.
“Not gonna get far, Lucky Pink…”
The sound nearly drops me. My chest clamps tight, and panic claws up my throat, but I force my legs to keep moving until I spot a thick cluster of brush and slip behind it. I crouch low, body shaking, gulping down air that won’t stay in my lungs. My pulse thunders in my ears so loudly I’m terrified it’s giving away my position.
I press a hand to my mouth to smother the ragged breaths. Sweat drips down my spine. My muscles quiver from the run. For a second—just a second—I let myself believe I’ve outpaced him.
Then the crunch of leaves comes closer.
Too close.
He’s talking again, sing-song and cruel. “You can hide all you want. I’ve got all day.”
The words drip through the trees like poison. My stomach flips. My fingers dig into the dirt, grounding myself. I try to remember the breathing technique from therapy—inhale four, hold, exhale—but my body refuses to obey. It wants movement, escape, anything but stillness.
A twig snaps right behind my hiding spot.
