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I tried to move my arm, but there was nowhere for it to go. Soil packed tight against every inch of my body, holding me in place. The position was strange–twisted–one knee bent up near my chest, the other leg stretched at an odd angle. Like I'd been dumped or thrown away.

My heart pounded harder, each beat an explosion of terror in my chest. I had to move. Had to get out. But how? The earth pressed in everywhere, so heavy I could barely twitch my fingers. Each tiny movement brought more soil trickling into any space I made, threatening to pack me in tighter.

Breathe!

But I couldn't breathe. Not really. Just shallow sips of air through soil that tasted of blood and herbs and...

No. Don't remember. Move. Please move.

I focused everything on my right hand, the one that seemed to have the most give. Millimeter by millimeter, I worked my fingers against the earth, trying to create just enough space to–

My chest spasmed. Black spots danced behind my closed eyelids and for a moment I was back in my cottage, Xavier's hands around my throat.

No. Focus. The memories would kill me as surely as the earth if I let them in. I concentrated on my hand again, on the burning need to move. To live. My wrist shifted, just a fraction, and suddenly there was the tiniest pocket of space near my face.

I turned my head, slowly, so slowly, pressing my face into that space. The soil still tried to fill my nose, my mouth, but for a moment I could draw in a real breath. The air was stale, thick with the taste of earth and death, but it was air.

The space wouldn't last. Already I could feel more dirt trickling down, threatening to seal me in again. But that breath, that tiny victory, sparked something deep inside. A fury that burned hotter than fear.

He'd tried to kill me, and bury me like a secret.

I wasn't dead yet.

The earth fought me with every movement, but that spark of rage kept me focused and fighting. My fingers worked in tiny circles, scraping and pressing until I curled them into a proper fist. The soil shifted around my knuckles. Not much, but enough.

I pushed upward, ignoring the fresh wave of dirt that cascaded down. Each movement had to count. Had to get me closer to air, to freedom and revenge.

The thought of his smirking face fueled me. I'd trusted him. Let him into my life, my home, my heart. And he'd tried to bury all of that along with my body.

My arm moved another fraction, the burn in my muscles almost welcome. Pain meant I was alive. It meant I could still make him pay.

Something scraped against my forearm–a root? I worked my fingers around it, using it as an anchor to pull myself higher. The earth fought back, pressing in from all sides, trying to drag me deeper. But I wouldn't let it. Not this time.

A spark flickered in my chest, familiar yet strange. Magick. My magick, which hadn't answered me since...Well, ever.

The tiny flame grew stronger, warming me from within. I didn't question it, didn't dare break this fragile connection. Instead, I fed it with my rage, my determination. The spark responded, pushing outward through my skin, creating the smallest bubble of space around my upper body.

It wasn't enough to free me completely, but it gave me room to move and think; to notice things I hadn't before–like the way the walls of my prison weren't smooth. They were rough, hasty, with curved gouges that could only have come from massive paws.

His wolf. His wolf had dug this hole, frantic and sloppy in its hurry to hide his crime. To bury the witch who'd dared to try and make things work even though our arrangement wasn't created by either of us.

Thunder rumbled, distant but growing closer, telling me which way was up. The sound vibrated through the earth, through my bones, and my magick flickered in response. Yes. The storm was coming. Coming for me, for him, for everything.

I clawed toward the thunder, my magick creating small pockets of space that collapsed almost as quickly as I made them. But it was enough. Had to be enough. The earth grew looser, wetter. Close. I had to be close.

Something cold hit my searching fingers. Rain. The storm was here, and I was almost free.

I pushed harder, ignoring the way my muscles screamed, the way dirt kept trying to fill my mouth, my nose. The rage burned hotter than the pain, than the fear. Each heartbeat seemed to echo with a single word:Survive. Survive. Survive.

My hand broke through first, rain pelting my raw, bleeding fingers. The storm's fury matched my own, lightning splitting the sky as I fought my way upward. Thunder crashed, drowning out my gasps as I finally, finally pulled my head and shoulders free.

Cold rain plastered my hair to my face, washing away dirt and blood in rivulets. I dragged in great gulps of air, sweet and clean and alive. But I couldn't stop. Couldn't rest. My legs were still trapped, and he could return any moment.

The hole was shallow, just as I'd thought. Barely deep enough to hide a body. To hide me. Now I could see the frenzied claw marks where his wolf had dug in desperation. Had the animal felt guilt? Remorse? Or just the urgency of its master's command?

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the forest around me. His territory. His pack's hunting grounds. I had to get away, had to run before they found me alive instead of safely buried and rotting.

My legs came free with a wet sucking sound, mud clinging to my clothes like grasping hands. I should have felt cold–the rain was icy, the wind bitter. But my skin remained warm, almost feverish. The magick still flickered inside me, weak but present. Present when it shouldn't have been awake yet.