Chapter One
Briar
I move through the underbrush with my hands out, pushing branches aside, keeping my steps light. Silence taught me to survive. My throat aches from thirst, and every swallow burns. I listen for water even though the sound could be memory lying to me again. The mountain shifts with wind and birds and settling night, but none of it helps me find what I need.
The forest doesn’t want me, but it hides me anyway.
I tilt my head, searching for the faint rush of a stream. Anything. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. When I open my lips to breathe, a low hum slips out—quiet, involuntary, likesomething wanting to wake inside me. I press my fingers to my neck until it stills.
No sound.
I reach a break in the trees and crouch low, scanning the ground. No dog prints. No drag marks. No careless boot scuffs. The absence of threat means nothing except danger took another path.
A gust of wind hits the back of my neck and a small clicking sound escapes before I can stop it. I slap a hand over my mouth, muscles locking tight.
That sound doesn’t belong to the forest.
A dark room. Pants unzipping. A strap falling hard. His voice slithers through memory.
Quiet girls live longer.
My fingers tremble. Shoving the memory away, I rise slowly, following the slope. Streams run downhill. My body remembers what my mind keeps losing.
Soft soil gives under my foot and another hum rises in my throat. I swallow it down, but a tiny pulse leaks out anyway. Not loud. Still enough to scare me.
I crouch again, knees to my chest, listening.
The forest answers with nothing.
Good.
I push myself upright and keep going. Bare feet find uneven ground, sending jolts up my spine, but I don’t stop. Not until I hold water in my hands. Not until the shaking leaves my limbs.
The trees close in as the path dips lower. My breath steadies. My throat loosens. The ache pushes me on.
Survive one more hour. One more night.
Everything else comes later—if it comes at all.
A dog barks somewhere behind me.
Not close. Close enough.
My whole body locks. I crouch low and listen hard, every muscle straining. Wind moves through the trees. A crow startles farther up the ridge. Then I hear it again. Faint. Ragged. Answered by a man’s voice too far away to make out the words.
He found my trail.
He’s close enough to send the dogs after me.
My legs quake from too many days without rest. Scratches stripe my shins. One foot drags more than the other, but stopping is worse than pain. Stopping means remembering. Stopping means letting him catch up. And if he catches me this time, he won’t drag me back alive just to make an example out of me later. He’ll do it slow. He promised that the last time I ran.
Hunger aches, but thirst is louder. My world narrows to one command.
Find water.
A break in the trees opens ahead and I scan the ground before I step into it. No fresh dog prints. No deep heel marks. No drag through the mud.
That should calm me.
