I’m covered in mud and sweat after my exertions, but at least, I’m no longer shivering.
Here goes nothing. I start to climb, and it’s clear straightaway that the bones aren’t going to hold long, so I scale the wall as fast as I can, almost slipping a couple times, until I’ve reached the last marker. I stretch my arms up, my breath oozing out in relief when my fingers grip the top of the pit. My footing gives out as I grab the top with my second hand, and I dangle from the edge, literally holding myself up by my arms and my fingers. I dig my hands into the earth above, grunting as I use my upper body strength to haul myself up and over the edge.
I roll onto my back, breathing heavily, my heart pounding furiously in my chest, arms throbbing like a bitch. But I’m silently triumphant because I’m out! I force my aching body to move, staggering to my feet and glancing all around.
Daylight is starting to creep into the dark sky, offering some small illumination, but I still have no clue what direction we came from. I remember the sound of their voices as they walked away, and I think they were heading in a westerly direction, so I take off that way, praying I’m not going deeper into the woods.
My desire to get the hell out of Dodge before any wolves make an appearance has me running even on blistered, cut feet.
The entire time, I’m conjuring up imaginative ways to dismember the guys.
I come to a small clearing, stopping for a minute to find my bearings and to draw a long breath. A gap in the woodland on my right grabs my attention, and I head toward it, smiling when I spot the fresh imprint of boots on the soft grass. I sprint through the gap, jogging along the narrow grassy path, my breath puffing out in cloudy circles, my limbs tired and protesting, but I keep going until I come to a much larger clearing and discover a defined path. I follow it for a mile or two until I reach the main entrance to the forest. I only know it is because I came up here one time with Darrow for a party.
I lean over the worn wooden railing to catch my breath while scanning my surroundings. The road outside is long and seemingly never ending, with thick forest running on either side, but I detect a small property about a quarter mile up ahead, and I take off in that direction.
I stick to the little grassy strip on the side of the road, forcing my tired legs to cooperate for another stretch.
When I reach the building I spotted, I see it’s a small one-story log cabin. A trickle of smoke filters from the chimney as I stand at the front door and knock. No one answers. I figure they’re most likely asleep, so I rap harder. When no one appears after I pound the door, scraping my knuckles in the process, I try the handle, but it’s locked. I walk around to the rear of the house, trying the back door, but it’s locked too.
Fuck.
I don’t want to add B & E to my resume, but I’m low on options. I’ve no money, no cell, no shoes, and there isn’t another house in sight. I need to get to a phone to call for help. I have no choice.
Wiping sweat off my brow with the back of my hand, I look all around for something I can use to break in.
What I wouldn’t give for my lock-picking kit now.
I’m about to use my elbow to break the glass panel in the door when I spot a large plant pot at the corner of the cabin. Figuring I might as well check, I pull it up, and a laugh rips free from my mouth at the sight of the key.
Someone up there is looking out for me.
I open the door, calling out hello as I cautiously step inside. I check all the rooms, but no one is here. But they can’t have gone far because there’s a toasty fire going in the living room and something is cooking in the oven.
I move to the wall-mounted phone and place my call. It takes five attempts to rouse Sariah because that girl sleeps like the dead, but finally, she answers, promising she’s coming as fast as she can.
Although it’s tempting to conk out on the comfy couch in front of the fire, I don’t want to overstay my welcome, so I exit the way I came in, cringing at the muddy footprints I leave behind. I replace the key under the pot and retrace my steps toward the entrance of the forest.
I’m slumped against the wooden railings, utterly exhausted, when Sariah shows up a few minutes later.
“Jesus Christ,” she exclaims, climbing out of her grandma’s battered red Volkswagen Golf. “What the hell did they do to you?”
I’d only given her the cliff notes version on the phone, so on the drive back, I fill her in on everything that happened last night.
“Those motherfucking bastards!” she seethes, gripping the steering wheel in a tight grip. “You could’ve been eaten by wolves! Or some psycho out burying bodies might’ve come across you. This means fucking war!”
“That’s what they’ll be expecting, but I’m altering my strategy.”
After I go postal on Saint’s ass, I decide, tiptoeing into my house fifteen minutes later. Sariah wanted me to come home with her, but I’m not hiding from them. They don’t scare me, and they need to know they won’t get the better of me.
I go straight to my bedroom, retrieve my knife and my kit, and step back out into the hallway, picking Saint’s lock as quietly as I can.
When I’m inside his room, I stare at the asshole as he sleeps. He’s flat on his back, sprawled across the king-sized mattress, the black silk sheets bunched at his waist, his chest inflating and deflating as he breathes deeply, as if he hadn’t just left me alone in the freaking forest.
Slivers of buttery light slip through the blinds, bathing him in a dim glow. He looks magnificent with all that toned, tan skin on display, and the ink on his arms and one side of his chest only adds to the attraction. His face is all angular masculine lines, his jaw covered in a smattering of hair I find so sexy on guys.
I wish he was an ugly fucker because it might help to make it easier to hold on to my anger. But, somehow, I know that wouldn’t make any difference. Saint exudes this aura, this magnetism, that sucks me in, and it’s less to do with how he looks and more to do with his dominant personality, his cutting humor, the dark intensity he brings to everything, and the power of the connection between us.
A connection forged in a split second in a stolen moment when we were kids.
Right now, that connection means jack shit, and his gorgeous looks aren’t distracting me from my anger either.
I move with purpose toward the bed, leaving a trail of muddy, bloody footprints on the gray carpet.
I’m a dirty, sweaty mess, my hair is knotted and caked with mud, and I stink to high heaven. I’m covered in cuts, my feet are bleeding, and there isn’t one part of my body that doesn’t hurt as I climb up over him, straddling his thighs and pressing the sharp edge of my knife to his dick through the sheets.
His eyes blink open the second my body weight presses down on him, and he’s instantly wide-awake, his gaze taking in the filthy state of me before lowering to the knife pointed at his family jewels. He turns his head to the bedside table, glancing at the time before facing me again with a cocky smile. “I’m impressed,” he rasps, his voice dripping with raw sexuality, doing funny things to my insides.
Focus on your anger. I give myself a silent pep talk because the shithead is not getting away with what he’s done to me. “I’m not,” I snap, angling the knife over his crotch. “I’m livid and I have a tendency to act recklessly when I’m mad.” I rip through his silk sheets until the tight black boxers he’s wearing are revealed.