Razor-sharp agony slices through me and steals my breath. Bending down, I brace myself on my knees, trying not to bawl like a fucking baby at the excruciating pain shooting through my left leg. I glance around the unfamiliar part of the forest, aware that I’m lost in the mountains with no cell phone. No compass. And now it hurts to stand.
Fuck.
And I have no idea if Diego is still in pursuit. Hopefully I lost him. But the uncertainty of his whereabouts pushes me onward in the unfamiliar terrain.
Except I can’t run anymore.
I hobble, trying not to put too much weight on my ankle.
With every limping step, the pain almost brings me to my knees. I want to curl up in the fetal position and sob my heart out. But I can’t stop. If I stop, I’m dead. Out here in the wilderness with no water, no food, and without a coat, I won’t survive. I stagger my way up a steep incline. My breaths turn to pained whimpers with each step. It fucking takes forever to reach the top. I stop and sit on a boulder to catch my breath and survey the area.
I’m near the top of a foothill. There’s a wide valley filled with alpines and wild grass, with a shimmering mountain lake toward the far end, surrounded on every side by mountains. They’re not any of the fourteen-footers Colorado is known for, but they’re all a decent size and will be a bitch and a half to climb on this ankle.
But as I scan the vista, I see a series of buildings surrounded by a stone gate. A tiny gravel road leads up to the gate.
Tears leak down my face.
If there’s a gate, that means there are people. People who can help. People who can call the police and ensure that Diego goes to jail for assaulting me. All I have to do is make it down the mountain and across the valley.
Determination suffuses me. With a firm destination in mind, I begin the last leg of my trek, heading toward salvation. It’s arduous, climbing around boulders, watching for predators, and wincing at the agony of each step.
My ankle throbs so badly that I’m crying from the escalating pain. But I know if I stop, I’m dead. And that motivation pushes me to ignore the pain as best I can.
Who gives a fuck if I sob the whole way there?
By the time I reach level ground, I’m sweaty and shaky, and it’s taking every last bit of strength I possess to remain upright. Every part of my body hurts.
Almost there. Just a little farther, and then I can rest.
With my pep talk playing on a recorded loop, I push myself to continue through the grass, watching for snakes, and head toward the gravel road.
I limp toward salvation, toward safety. Each step is agony. I’m dehydrated. My head swims from my mad dash. My clothing is torn. My aching body is bruised and bleeding. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep putting weight on my left ankle.
But I continue putting one foot in front of the other. My body is dragging. The pain is excruciatingly intense, and I’m sobbing, surprised I haven’t passed out from the severity. But the distance grows shorter. The gray stone gate surrounding a series of buildings rises, a beacon guiding me. And the tallest building beyond begins to take shape. It’s an enormous mansion, damn near palatial, with massive ivory columns.
What is this place? Is it some type of weird, twisted commune or cult?
Fuck if I care. But I’ve never seen anything like it in the mountains. Most of the homes are cabin-themed to varying degrees.
A hundred yards out, I notice men on top of the gate. I wave my arms and yell, “Help! Please help me!”
My strength wanes. The pain in my legs increases. But I limp onward, hoping they’ll help me.
I spy movement at the gate and pray they’re friendly, that they’ll let me inside. I just need a place to sit. Maybe some water. And a phone to call the cops.
And then the heavy steel gate slides open. On the other side stands a lone man. Imposing. Massive. Broad shoulders stretch his black suit jacket.
How odd. He’s wearing a damn suit in the middle of nowhere in the mountains.
He doesn’t approach me. But I limp toward him, needing his help, ready to cry even harder than I am with each agonized footfall if he turns me away.
The closer I get, the clearer his features become. He’s tall. Much taller than me. And he’s sinfully handsome. His face is all hard angles with cheekbones like razor blades. He stands with a proud bearing. Silver threads his full head of chestnut hair, expertly styled, shorn close on the sides and fuller on top in a slicked-back cut.
I’m close. With only a few yards left, I reach for him. My arms are outstretched, pleading with him to help me. Wondering why he hasn’t done anything. But I’m so tired it could be my brain misfiring and seeing things.
But I’m almost there. Just a few more steps, then I can rest.
On the next step, my ankle buckles. And I fall, bracing my body for more pain. Yet it never comes. Powerful arms catch me and gather me close, lifting me until I’m cradled against his colossal chest.
