“I’m injured,” he says calmly, gesturing to his ankle. “I’ll even give you a head start.”
I glance around at the trees, at the uneven ground, at the way the clearing suddenly feels less like a sanctuary and more like a hunting ground. “Here? You want me to run here?”
“Why not? You’re wearing sneakers,” he says, like it’s obvious.
I let out a high-pitched laugh, full of nerves, even as a traitorous thrill bolts up my spine. “This is ridiculous. I’m not running from you—”
“One.”
My heart picks up faster, like it’s already trying to outrun him.
“Carrson—”
“Two.”
His eyes are on me now, in a way that makes it hard to think clearly, like the rules just changed and I didn’t see when it happened.
“This is dumb. I’m not—”
“Three. Better hurry.” The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “You’re almost out of time.”
My breath comes faster, my feet already turning, already deciding.
“Four.”
And then I’m moving.
I go before I can think about it, talk myself out of it, and I’m running, branches snapping underfoot, air moving quickly through my lungs, a wild and bright feeling rising up inside me. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. Maybe not ever.
He’s going to chase me.
And the crazy part, I want him to.
So I run.
Leaves skid as I exit the clearing and burst into the trees, the ground rocky enough to keep me thinking about every step. I take in quick gasps of air that barely keep up with the pace I’ve set. I’m already working harder than I expected.
At first, all I hear is myself.
My footsteps. My breathing. The rush of it.
Then,him.
Not close yet. But there. Behind me.
He’s not loud. Not frantic. No crashing through branches, no wasted movement. The steady rhythm of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. Who isn’t worried.
A dark rush floods my mind at the idea of it. Carrson in pursuit.
I push harder. Duck under a branch, pivot around a tree, cut left without thinking, trusting instinct more than direction. The woods close in around me, shadows shifting. The path disappears into wildness, leaving nothing but ground and roots and dead leaves.
I glance back. Big mistake.
He’s closer.
Not sprinting. Not straining.
Gaining.
