CHAPTER 4
The ropes give another fraction. I can feel the fibers splitting one by one against my raw wrists, each snap a whispered promise. Blood makes for good lubricant when you've got nothin’ else.
Life lessons you wish you didn't have to learn so young.
My left wrist is a mess of torn skin and exposed meat. The right isn't much better. But pain's just a message, and I've gotten real good at putting those messages on hold.
The cabin's quiet except for the wind findin’ its way through cracks in the old logs that make up the walls. Somewhere outside, a crow calls.
Silence can be a warning all its own.
I need to get out of here.
I twist my wrist again, feeling something tear. My skin or the rope, doesn't matter. Both are coming apart as I work the rope against a splintered edge on the support beam. My shoulders scream from being pulled back at this angle for hours. Feels like my joints are trying to separate.
But it's my only way out of this. So the blood and the pain doesn't matter.
The only thing that matters is escape. Becausehe'sgot Savannah up at North Ridge. She’s withhim. Even Cash and Wyatt were second-guessing that move.
Don't think about it, Legion, I caution myself.
You can't help her until you're free, so thoughts don't matter. All it'll get you is anger. And anger only works in the desperate end of a fight.
This is not the desperate end of a fight. This is the precarious beginning of a war I never wanted, but will fight to the death anyway.
The thought sends fresh heat through my veins. My right hand curls into a fist, and I feel the rope give another fraction.
Almost there.
I picture Marcus touching her. Hurting her. "Cleaning" her.
"Stay strong, Savannah. I'm coming," I promise this, though no one hears it but the walls.
Another twist. The rope stretches. One more?—
There's a sound. Almost musical. The sound of fibers finally surrendering.
My right hand pulls free with a wet slide, arm falling limp at my side. Dead weight. Useless for a minute until the blood starts flowin’ back. I grit my teeth against the pins and needles, knowin’ what's coming next will hurt worse.
I reach across with clumsy fingers, workin’ at the knots on my left wrist. Each touch feels like I'm digging into my own grave, but I keep going. Keep breathin’.
The left hand comes free, and I lean my head back against the beam. For thirty seconds, I allow myself to just breathe. To feel how close I came to never getting up again.
Then I'm moving.
I crawl first, then stagger to my feet. My legs are weak from sitting so long, and the cabin spins. But I find the wall and steady myself against the rough-cut logs.
Cash's boot did some damage. Each breath bubbles something wet in my chest. I spit blood onto the floor, adding to the mess I've already made.
"Not dying here," I tell the empty room. "Not today."
I make it to the door and I'm just about to pull it open, when the sound of hoof beats hits my ears.
Fuck.
I took thirty seconds too long. That break, thirty seconds, might be what stands between life and death today.
I grab an old piece of wood lying by the collapsed fireplace, slide up to the wall, lean my back against the logs, and wait.
