Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
That doesn’t matter.
I run toward the truck, but it’s covered in snow, and I don’t have time to clear it off. Shit. Only one choice now.
“Saint!” Calder roars, the sound a mixture of fury and panic that promises pain if he catches me.
I don’t look back, and I don’t slow down. I just push forward into the blizzard, into the darkness, into whatever fate awaits me. The snow is already deep, making every step a struggle.
My feet are already numb as I trudge forward. Forget the cold, forget the pain. It’s only temporary. Think of your future. Think of your father and Allie. I pick a direction and hope it leads somewhere, anywhere, that’s away from him.
The trees loom around me, dark shapes in the white storm. I don’t know where I’m going. No idea if I’m heading toward town or deeper into the wilderness.
All I know is, I have to get away.
Because even dying in the snow is better than becoming his.
Even death is a choice I can make for myself.
With every step I take, the trees swallow a little more of me, and the cabin disappears from view, hidden behind a curtain of white.
Calder
“Saint!”
My voice tears through the night, raw with panic and anger I haven’t felt since, I can’t even remember when. Fear isn’t something I allow myself to feel. Fear gets you killed in my world. This is different, though. It isn’t fear for myself. It’s terror for her. I stagger out onto the porch, blood trickling down the side of my face. I don’t give a fuck if I’m bleeding.
My concern is Saint. The blizzard has intensified. The wind howls through the trees like something alive and angry. Snow falls so thick that I can barely see ten feet in front of me.
Somewhere out there, wearing not nearly enough, is Saint.
If I don’t find her soon, she’ll die.
It kills me to think that, but it’s true. I need to do something.
I grab my coat from the hook by the door, shrugging into it as I scan the ground. There, barely visible in the rapidly accumulating snow, are tracks leading away from the cabin. Small, desperate prints heading straight into the tree line.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
I can’t blame her for trying.
Wouldn’t you do the same? Wouldn’t anyone choose the possibility of death over the certainty of captivity?
The thought doesn’t make the fear any less visceral.
I rush out into the storm, following her tracks. My head screams in protest with every step, my vision still swimming. I push through it. Pain doesn’t matter. The blood running down my neck doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is finding her before the cold does.
A gust of wind cuts through my coat like knives, and I grit my teeth against the cold. Snow stings my face, making it nearly impossible to see. I can’t imagine what it’s like for her—exposed, vulnerable, already hypothermic?
How far could she have gotten? Two hundred yards? Three hundred?
Not far enough to escape, but far enough to die trying.
Her tracks are already filling in, the storm working to erase every trace of her. I move faster, my breath coming in harsh clouds. The trees close in around me, dense and dark. This part of the forest is treacherous even in daylight. In these conditions, a fallen log hidden under snow could be her end.
“Saint!” I roar, calling out to her. the wind steals my voice. “Stop running!”
Nothing. No response. Just the howl of wind and the whisper of falling snow.
I rush deeper into the trees, following what’s left of her trail. The pounding in my head intensifies with every heartbeat, a sharp reminder of the pan connecting with my skull. She got me good. Real good. If I weren’t Bishop-bred, that hit might have done more than knock me out for a few seconds.
Maybe minutes.
Her tracks veer left suddenly erratic. She’s stumbling now. Good, it means she’s slowing down. Also bad, since it means she’s losing coordination. Hypothermia is most likely setting in, stopping her from thinking clearly.
I’m closing the distance between us. I can feel it.
ThenI spot her.
A small figure in the white, moving with jerky, uncoordinated movements. She’s maybe fifty yards ahead, weaving between trees like she’s drunk. Every few steps she stumbles, catches herself, but keeps going, fueled by pure stubborn will.
Even now, even dying, she’s still fighting.
An unrecognizable emotion cracks through my chest—pride mixed with terror, and something else I don’t want to name.
“Saint!” I call, pushing harder through the snow.
She doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t even seem to hear me. Just keeps putting one foot in front of the other. I eat up the distance between us in long, powerful strides. Ranch work has made me strong, made me capable of exactly this kind of pursuit.
She never stood a chance.
Thirty yards.
Twenty.
Ten.
She stumbles again, going down hard into a snowdrift, then struggling to push herself up, her movements sluggish. She’s shaking violently, good, that means her body’s still trying to warm itself. Once the shaking stops, she’s in real trouble.