Then I was falling into the door Caymen pushed open from inside.
I fell into the seat with a cry.
Caymen’s face twisted up, like he felt the pain too.
But then something caught his attention in the windshield.
“Fuck.”
He reached to slam my door, turned over the car, and slammed it into reverse.
I glanced up, seeing the darkened figure.
My finger found the window button.
My arm was out before I could even think it through.
I didn’t shoot at the shadow. It was moving too quickly.
But what wasn’t moving? The car parked a few yards from ours.
I hit the windshield first, then tried for the tires, but Caymen had whipped us straight before I could blow one out.
“Belt, baby,” Caymen said, though he hadn’t done his own yet.
I reached to secure mine and as soon as I did, he did his own as he floored it down the unpaved street.
For just a moment, I sat there in stunned silence, just trying to breathe, to ease the vice grip on my lungs, to think past the throbbing sensation of my pulse in my chest and throat.
When Caymen slowed to make a turn around the first farm’s property, it was like the relief of the head start allowed my brain to finally process the pain.
My arm burned.
My ankle screamed.
My feet felt like they’d been sliced to ribbons.
A whimper escaped me.
Caymen’s hand moved out, going to the back of my neck and giving me a squeeze.
He had no comforting words.
What could he say?
That it was okay?
It wasn’t.
That we were safe?
Who was to say?
But the touch was enough, grounding me, keeping the panic from overwhelming me.
Within a few strategically deep breaths, I felt like I could think past the pain again.
Feeling the shift, Caymen released me to reach for his pocket, pulling out his phone, and—judging by how quickly he brought the phone—hit one of his emergency contacts.
