Stop.
It doesn’t matter what Zeke is doing or how he’s doing it. If I can run far enough by morning to get off the flock’s lands, I’ll be free.
A blister bursts on my heel with a quick, sharp sting. My lungs burn. I haven’t run in so long, my body is failing me. The rain doesn’t help. Cold needles slice at my skin, turning the prairie into a mud pit. Hours—God, it feels like hours—and I have no idea how far I’ve gone. Six miles? Ten? What if it’s only three?
With no stars to guide me, I might not even be running in a straight line. I pick a tree in the distance, run until I reach it, then collapse against the trunk for a count of sixty before I choose another. My legs feel like they’re made of lead, and my boots sink so deep into the muck, I might as well be running through quicksand.
A bolt of lightning tears a hole in the sky. Thunder follows—so loud, it rattles my teeth.
The second strike hits the tree I was keeping in my sights. For a moment, I can’t see a thing. Another rumble. But this one…sounds wrong. Lower. Closer. Longer.
Not thunder. Horses.
Ice floods my veins. Panic squeezes my chest so tightly, I can barely breathe, and I push my legs harder.
“There she is!” a man shouts. Vincent, I think. He was on guard duty tonight. Flashlight beams sweep through the rain, slicing across the field until they blind me.
“Give it up, Nova. You can’t outrun us!” Malone’s rage lashes at me through the storm. He’s the meanest of Zeke’s clerics. The only one besides the deranged prophet who truly scares me.
I’ve failed.
All my planning. Every “Blessed day” and “Yes, Prophet” and “Praise to the Glorious One” I uttered as my soul fractured into pieces. The blisters on my feet and scratches on my legs from running through the fields for hours.
But it’s the loss of hope that sends me to my knees.
The two men circle me several times, their horses kicking mud in my face. When they finally stop, Vincent keeps his flashlight trained on me, while Malone dismounts with a wide smile.
“Prophet said if you wanted to run twenty miles, we should help you do it.” The asshole pulls a length of rope from his saddle bag, as casual as if he were about to tie down a bale of hay. “We’ve been followin’ you for a couple hours now. I reckon we coulda’ let you go on for a little longer, but the storm’s rough, and it ain’t fair to the horses.”
The light wavers as Vincent swings his leg over the side of Bonnie, his favorite mare. She shakes her head and paws at the wet ground, her gentle eyes on me like she knows what’s about to happen won’t be good.
Vincent grabs me and hauls me to my feet. I thrash, weak as I am, but he pins my arms in front of me easily.
“Get y-your f-fucking hands off m-me,” I scream. I’m so cold, my teeth chatter, but fury keeps me from cowering—from giving in completely.
“Swearing, Nova? After all Prophet’s given you? Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Malone says. He loops the rope around my wrists, snug and merciless, then ties the other end to his saddle.
“No,” I whisper, horror clawing at my throat. He wouldn’t be so cruel?—
The sound that tears from my lungs isn’t a scream. It’s the death of every prayer. Every good thing I’ve ever known. Every small shred of hope I’ve clung to these past months.
Another bolt of lightning illuminates Malone’s grin a second before his fist slams into my stomach.
I collapse, fingers clawing uselessly at the muddy soil as if it can somehow protect me from what’s coming.
From the pain.
The humiliation.
The box.
The men mount their horses.
I have to get up. If I don’t…
With a soft chi-chi, Malone urges his horse forward a couple of steps. The rope pulls taut, and my shoulders beg for mercy.
“Please!” I gasp. “D-don’t…d-do this!”
