The dog barks again, and the man says something mumbled that sounds like a command.
In the faint light, there’s a German shepherd with its ears upright. The dog’s body is tense as it starts barking, loud and aggressive.
“Sprint,” Davis says, and we do.
We sprint across the open grass, not caring about anything but speed, as the dog’s barking gets more frantic. Seconds later, I hear the man shouting and the cottage door bang open. We haul ass until we crash into the tree line.
He looks at me and shakes his head. “Is your life just a big series of close calls?”
“Pretty much,” I say with a shrug. “I test the limits too much though.”
“I agree, Your Highness.”
“Louis,” I say.
We push through branches and step over roots. The duffel bag catches on something, and I yank it free. Behind us, the dog is still barking, but it’s not getting closer.
Davis sets a brutal pace through the forest that makes my lungs ache.
I think about Addison, about the way she scrunches her nose when she’s concentrating on a brushstroke, about the streaks of paint shealways gets on her without noticing. It’s the little things I love though, like how she laughs with her entire body or how fast she is with the comebacks. I push harder, faster, for her. The sooner I’m out of Montclaire, the sooner I can see her again.
After twenty minutes, which feels like hours, we break through the trees onto a dirt road, where a luxury car is waiting with its headlights off. A young man leans against the hood, smoking a cigarette, and he straightens when he sees us stumble out of the forest.
“About time,” he says, flicking the cigarette away. “I was starting to think you’d gotten caught.”
“Almost did,” Davis says, still breathing hard. “Can we please get out of here now?”
“Who are you?” I ask.
“None of your damn business,” the guy says.
I stare at him.
We pile into the car, and the guy pulls onto the road without turning on his headlights. For the first kilometer, he navigates in the dark. I lean my head back against the seat and try to calm the hell down from the adrenaline rush.
“How did you arrange a plane?” Davis asks.
“It’s best if you don’t know all the details yet,” I say.
He laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “Now you’re keeping secrets?”
“I’m protecting you. The less you know, the less you can be forced to tell them if this goes sideways. Speaking of, if that happens, I forced you. Okay? I threatened you with a weapon. A knife. I don’t care what you tell them, but I will absolutely take the blame.”
The guy driving scoffs and shakes his head.
Davis ignores him and nods. “Fair enough.”
The headlights click on as we reach the main road, and the driver accelerates. The car winds through back roads, avoiding the main highways. Twenty minutes later, the private airstrip appears out of the darkness. Sitting on the tarmac with its lights on and engines running is a Gulfstream G650.
The guy scans a card at a private gate, then speeds down the road leading to the runway. When we’re close to the plane, he stops.
“It’s important that no one knows you saw us tonight,” I tell the driver.
He holds up his phone and snaps a quick selfie with me in theframe before I can react. “Shut the fuck up, Louis. Get out of my car. You’re welcome.”
I stare at him as we climb out, then turn to Davis. “Who the hell is that guy?”
“My cousin.” Davis grabs his bag from the trunk. “He’s a dick, and he hates the royal family.”
