Chapter 14
Kayla
I stumble around another corner, pulse hammering in my ears, bare feet silent against the cold concrete. The corridors all look the same; endless gray passages leading nowhere, but I can’t stop. Won’t stop. Behind me, I can hear the shouts of Kit’s mean growing closer. I throw a glance over my shoulder, seeing nothing yet, but knowing they’re coming. My lungs burn.
My legs tremble from days of inactivity. But ahead, past a stack of wooden pallets, I spot something I haven’t seen in what feels like forever: a door with a sliver of light bleeding through its edges. Sunlight. Freedom.
I surge forward, ignoring the protest in my muscles, the sting of my scraped feet. The door has a simple push bar. I slam my palms against it, expecting resistance, alarms, something tostop me. Instead, it gives way easily, swinging open with a quiet whoosh.
The day outside is blindingly bright. I throw my arm up, shielding my eyes that have grown accustomed to fluorescent dimness and windowless rooms. For a terrifying second, I’m blind, vulnerable. But then my vision adjusts, and I see it: the world outside. Trees. Sky. Open space stretching beyond a cracked asphalt lot.
I take my first breath of fresh air in days, and it nearly brings me to my knees. The scent of pine, of dirt, of clean air. I want to stand here and just breathe, but the shouts inside are getting closer.
Run.
My bare feet hit asphalt, then gravel, each step sending jolts of pain up my legs. I’m running on pure adrenaline now, the torn hem of my once-pretty dress flapping around my knees. I scan my surroundings as I run. The warehouse sits in a small clearing, surrounded by dense pine forest. No roads that I can see. No neighboring buildings. Just trees and more trees stretching in every direction. Where am I?
It doesn’t matter. What matters is how much distance I can put between myself and that warehouse.
Behind me, the emergency door bangs open. A voice bellows my name, followed by a string of curses. I don’t look back. I can’t afford to. Every second, every step counts.
I aim for the treeline, perhaps a hundred yards away. If I can reach the forest, maybe I can lose them among the pines. Hide somewhere until nightfall. Find a road eventually. Something. Anything is better than being dragged back to that concrete prison.
“She’s heading for the trees!” someone yells. “Cut her off!”
I push harder, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The dress tangles around my legs, hampering my stride. The treeline is getting closer. Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty.
A stitch forms in my side, a white-hot needle digging between my ribs. My body isn’t ready for this. Days of confinement, stress, and poor sleep have taken their toll. But I can‘t stop. Not now.
I hit the trees at full speed, branches whipping at my face and arms as I plunge into the relative darkness of the forest. Pine needles cushion my steps, a small mercy for my battered feet. I weave between trunks, ducking under low branches, trying to be as quiet as possible while maintaining speed.
Behind me, I hear them crashing through the underbrush like bulls, not bothering with stealth. They’re gaining. Of course, they are. They’re well-fed, well-rested men who know these woods. I’m a half-starved woman in a torn cocktail dress who hasn’t seen sunlight in days.
Still, I push on, changing direction randomly, hoping to confuse my pursuers. My breath scrapes in my throat. Sweat runs into my eyes, blurring my vision. A branch catches my hair, yanking painfully at my scalp. I tear free, leaving strands behind, not caring about the sting.
“I see her!” The voice is much closer than it should be. “Over here!”
No. No. I can‘t let them catch me. I can’t go back. I dart left, then right, zigzagging between trees. My foot catches on an exposed root, and I stumble, nearly falling. The momentary loss of speed costs me precious seconds.
Heavy footsteps thunder behind me, closing fast. I try to sprint, but my legs are turning to jelly beneath me. I push through a dense cluster of saplings, branches scratching at my arms and face—
And then I’m yanked backward, my momentum halting so suddenly that my teeth clack together painfully. A strong arm wraps around my waist, hauling me back against a solid chest. I twist my head around, looking up into a familiar face.
Kit.
I scream, more from rage than fear, thrashing wildly in his grip. His breath is hot against my ear as he hisses something I can’t make out over the roaring in my head. I twist, throw my head back with all the force I can muster, feeling a satisfying crunch as the back of my skull connects with his nose.
Kit curses, his grip loosening just enough. I tear free, stumbling forward, trying to regain my momentum. But I’ve only managed three steps before his hand closes around my upper arm, yanking me back again.
He spins me around to face him, and what I see freezes the blood in my veins.
Gone is the playful, almost charming psychopath with the disarming smile. In his place stands a fury-faced stranger, blood streaming from his nose down his perfect lips and onto his chin. His golden-green eyes are flat and cold, like those of a predator who’s done playing with its food.
This, I realize with sickening clarity, is what Kit looks like when he‘s truly angry. And it’s terrifying.
I stop struggling, my survival instinct finally overriding my desperate bid for freedom. Behind Kit, three more men crash through the underbrush, coming to a halt when they see us. None of them look happy. In fact, they all look like they’d happily snap my neck if Kit gave the word.
Kit still has my arm in a viselike grip, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He leans in close, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath, see the flecks of gold in his eyes.