Something sharp bit into my foot, making me stumble.
But Caymen’s hold kept me from falling forward, even as pain shot up my shoulder and neck at the sudden jerking sensation.
My lungs were full of flames.
My side cramped.
How were we going to get out of this?
We couldn’t run forever.
There was no main road anywhere nearby to flag down a car, no houses to run to for shelter.
We were wholly alone.
Surrounded by overgrowth. And, if we ran far enough, fields of farmland.
The hopelessness gained roots, started digging deep, spreading.
I fell back another step, then another.
My hand slid from his.
But before he could turn back and grab me again, my foot landed wrong.
The sharp jolt of pain shot through my ankle and up my calf, making a startled gasp escape me.
Then, as I tried to take another step forward, a cry.
“Fuck,” Caymen hissed.
He circled back, doing a two-second assessment in the dark, then grabbed my good arm as he turned his back to me.
He pulled hard, making my arm wrap around his chest.
Then he was reaching back, grabbing me behind my bad leg.
I jumped as hard as I could with the good one, then wrapped it around his waist as he broke into a run again. Albeit slower, with a whole other body to drag along with him.
I could feel the corded tension in his body, the way his chest was rising and falling too quickly from the strain.
“Put me down,” I demanded.
“No.”
“You can’t—”
“I can. Quiet. Don’t want to lead him to us.”
I tightened my hold on the gun.
“Listen,” Caymen panted a few minutes later. “In a minute, I’m going to need to put you down. And I need you to run like hell to the passenger side of the car and get in.”
“I can drive—”
“You fucked up your right leg,” he reminded me. “Are you ready?”
No.
