Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
“It’s shouting,” Arrow says flatly.
I choke on a laugh.
Ozzy looks at me. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, smiling despite myself. “It’s just… I didn’t know ‘rescue’ came with commentary.”
Arrow’s mouth tilts slightly. “Everything comes with commentary.”
Ozzy leans back, elbow on the seat, eyes on me again. “You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
I glance down at my hands. They are. Badly. Now that I’m not running, my body is catching up. Adrenaline leaving. Reality returning like a wave. I force my fingers to uncurl. “I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Ozzy’s gaze doesn’t move. “Salem,” he says, and my name on his mouth feels strange. Personal. “You don’t have to be fine. You just have to be here.”
My chest aches. I blink fast and look out the window, focusing on the blur of city lights. “Where are we going?” I ask, because questions are safer than feelings.
“Headquarters,” Arrow says. “We’re going to end this.”
My stomach twists. End this. That means more than me escaping. It means the people who did this don’t get to keep doing it. It means they don’t get to move on to the next girl. I swallow, heat sparking behind my eyes. “Good,” I whisper.
Ozzy’s hand shifts on the seat, close to mine. He’s not touching me, but almost. He’s so close I can feel the heat from his hand radiating toward me. My fingers inch toward his. I let my pinky brush his. His breath catches like he felt it. And then he turns his head slightly, voice low, teasing, like he’s giving me something lighter to hold.
“So,” he murmurs. “When we’re not being chased by monsters… what do you do for fun?”
I blink at him. My brain stutters. Fun? What is fun? Is it still legal?
“I—” I start, then realize I don’t actually know what my life is outside survival anymore. So I go with honesty. “I like breaking rules,” I say.
Ozzy’s grin flashes. “Same.”
“And I like… making men regret underestimating me.”
Arrow mutters, “You’re going to fit in.”
Ozzy leans closer, eyes bright. “And what about mohawks?” he asks, clearly too pleased with himself. “Are those part of your rule-breaking lifestyle?”
I snort. “They’re certainly… a choice.”
“A good choice,” he corrects.
“A loud choice,” Arrow adds.
I glance at Ozzy’s hair again and my stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with fear. “Fine,” I whisper. “It’s a good choice.”
Ozzy’s smile turns softer for a second, like he’s surprised by how much that means. Then his gaze sharpens again, returning to the mission. “Sleep when you can,” he says quietly. “We’re not done.”
I nod, swallowing. “I know,” I whisper.
But for the first time in weeks, the words don’t feel like a sentence. They feel like a plan. And I’m sitting beside a man with a mohawk and a dangerous smile who just ripped me out of hell like he’d been born to do it. So yeah. Maybe I’m not done. Maybe I’m just getting started.
FOUR
OZZY
The girl beside me doesn’t look like someone who just outran hell. She looks like someone who memorized every circle of it, catalogued the demons by name, and is already planning how to burn the place down the second she gets the chance.
Arrow’s got the blacked-out Escalade humming low through the sleeping veins of Saint Pierce, headlights carving pale tunnels out of the dark. Streetlights strobe across her face in slow, rhythmic pulses like the city itself is trying to get a good look at what we just stole from the tower. Salem Bloom.
I’m studying her. Can’t help it. My brain’s doing that thing again. It’s filing details like evidence I’ll need later, like I’m building a case against myself for caring too much.
Her hair is a dark spill over her shoulders, the kind of black that drinks light instead of reflecting it. It’s tangled in places, still carrying the faint scent of the lavender shit they used to “prepare” her for the auction. Strands stick to the damp skin at her temples. She hasn’t bothered to push them away. Too proud, maybe. Or too tired.
Her eyes are open and unblinking. They track everything: the red blink of the traffic cam we just rolled under, the silhouette of Arrow’s shoulders as he drives, the way my knuckles are white around the grip of the seat. No wide-eyed panic. No trembling lip. Just cold, steady calculation. Like she’s already running escape routes in her head, weighing me against the monsters she left behind, deciding whether I’m the lesser evil or just a different flavor of predator.
That’s not a victim staring back at me.
That’s a survivor.
Her posture is ramrod straight even though the leather seat is swallowing her small frame. Chin tipped up, shoulders squared like she’s daring the universe to try breaking her again.
Her hands rest in her lap, fingers laced so tight the knuckles bleach. Every few seconds one of them twitches, taps out a silent rhythm against her knee. Maybe just a nervous tic she doesn’t even know she has. Either way, it’s the only outward sign she’s holding herself together with nothing but sheer goddamn will.