I can feel the tension in the cab, the slight shift in weight when one of them checks the mirrors, the vibration of the engine through the floor. Every little detail becomes a piece of a puzzle I have to solve.
I think of the town, the fire, the chaos Gabe must be facing. He’s probably already out there, running, fighting, trying to get to me. My chest tightens. I want to yell his name, tell him I’m okay—but I can’t. Not yet.
Not until I’m free.
The truck swerves slightly. I almost tumble, but my knee catches the seat. My hands strain against the ropes, raw skin screaming.
My mind races: if I can just loosen the knot, if I can just grab something sharp, if—if—if I can survive until someone comes for me.
I catch a flash of light through the small rear window, the faint reflection of headlights bouncing across the cab. My heart leaps.
Someone’s there. Someone could be coming.
Hope, fragile as it is, claws its way up my throat. I swallow it down, try to steady my breath. I have to survive. I have to hold on.
Gabe is out there. Boone is out there. Someone is coming for me.
The truck hits a dip, throwing me forward, and I slam against the seatbelt. One of them laughs again. I grit my teeth and focus on that tiny glimmer of hope.
Every jolt, every turn, every bump—I catalog it. I memorize the way the tires hum against the road, the smell of diesel, the faint metallic sting of blood in the air.
A shadow falls across my face from the front window. One of them glances back, sneers.
“You like screaming, don’t you?” he says, and it’s dangerous.
My stomach turns. I don’t answer. I can’t. I let my pulse guide me. I let my instincts cling to survival.
I think of Gabe again. The memory of his eyes, the promise I can feel even across miles of chaos, burns in my chest.
He’s going to find me. He has to. And if he does… I have to be ready. Ready to fight. Ready to claw my way out. Ready to breathe again.
The truck slows. My heart jumps.
Maybe they’ve hit traffic. Maybe there’s a roadblock. My mind snaps into overdrive, scanning possibilities, mapping escape routes in my head. My breath comes in jagged pulls, every exhale tasting of ash and fear.
And then, faint, almost impossibly faint over the roar of the engine, I hear something else. Tires crunching in the dirt. Voices shouting. A shout that isn’t theirs.
My pulse explodes. My head snaps toward the rear window. There’s movement, headlights bouncing across the road. Hope rises in my chest like wildfire.
I press my fists into my knees, knuckles white. I whisper Boone’s name, just once, letting it slip into the air like a prayer.
The truck rocks again, but this time it feels different. Dangerous, yes—but there’s a possibility now. A chance.
I bite back a scream, bite back tears. I lean against the door, listening, watching, waiting. Whoever is coming—they have to be fast. They have to be smart. They have to be my saviors.
The truck jerks, and I slam against the seatbelt, heart hammering so hard I can’t breathe. My wrists are raw, the ropes cutting into my skin, but I barely notice.
My eyes are fixed on the shadows in the cab, the dark outlines of the men who have been dragging me away like property.
“Scott,” I whisper under my breath, hatred and fear twisting together.
The thought of him—the smug way he moved, the cruel sneer—makes bile rise in my throat. The others—Jeremiah, Levi, Trevor, Dalton—they’ve all been silent hunters, ghosts in the back of my head, each movement a threat.
And then it happens.
The truck hits a sharp curve, tires skidding on gravel, and headlights flare behind us. Someone else is here. Someone is closing in.
My pulse skyrockets. My body tenses, every nerve screaming.
