Page 126 of Fire and Silk

He shoves me toward the open back door. I stumble. I don’t get a second chance to resist.

I’m forced inside.

The door slams shut before I can throw myself out.

He shoves me into the passenger seat, hands gripping my arms harder than he should. I fight, uselessly—nails catching on the side of the door, legs kicking against the footwell—but he pins me with a look and forces the door closed.

The lock clicks.

He gets in beside me, adjusts the mirror, and starts the engine. Gravel spits beneath the tires as we pull away.

I stop fighting.

The cuts on my wrists sting with every small movement, raw from the ropes, smeared with dirt and sweat and blood. I lean against the cold glass of the window: the sky outside painted in motionless grey. Trees blur past. Empty stretches of road unfurl like a punishment. My breath fogs against the glass. I don't wipe it away.

He drives in silence for a while. Then—

“You hungry?” His voice is cautious. “Thirsty?”

I say nothing.

The road hums under us. My face is soaked. I don’t even realize I’m still crying until the salt reaches my lips. The silence swallows everything except the thudding weight in my chest.

He tries again. “You should eat.”

Still nothing.

After nearly an hour, the car slows. He turns into a supermarket lot, empty except for a white van near the loading dock. He parks close to the entrance, the engine ticking as it cools.

He turns to me. “I’ll be five minutes. Do you want anything?”

I keep my head to the window.

“Lira—”

I don’t look at him. I don’t move.

His sigh scrapes against my ear. “Fine.”

The door opens. Closes. He locks the car from his key fob and walks toward the glass doors of the store.

As soon as he disappears inside, I move.

The car is silent but not still. I lift the glove box—nothing. A useless stack of napkins. I lean over to the floor of the backseat, digging through the space beneath it. My hands brush against canvas. A zipped pouch.

I tug it out. It’s heavier than it looks. The zipper jams twice before it gives.

Inside: a small handgun. Compact. No magazine.

My fingers go numb.

I don’t let myself think. I reach again and find another item tucked into the side lining of the bumper. Pepper spray. My hands tremble so badly I nearly drop it.

I load the gun. It clicks into place.

My breath comes faster now. My eyes dart to the supermarket entrance. The automatic doors slide open.

He’s walking out— fast. Bag in one hand. Keys in the other. He’s only been gone three minutes.