Page 17

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Paigelynn

I jump in to find Cam.

The water is cold. So cold it stings my skin. I can hear the fight—grunts, splashes, the sound of bodies hitting the water—but I can’t see Cam. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might break through my chest. I kick my legs, trying to swim closer, trying to help, but then I feel them.

Hands. Big, rough hands.

They grab me, fingers biting into my arms and waist, dragging me back.

Away from the water.

Away from Cam.

“Let go!” I scream, my voice cracking. I twist and thrash.

“Careful,” one of the men growls. “She’s got teeth.”

“She’s got more than teeth,” another says with a laugh. “She’s got claws too. But don’t worry. We’ll fix that.”

“Shut up, Trey,” the guard says. “Can’t hurt her. We’ll get in big trouble with Angelina.”

I swing again, wild and shaky, punching the air. Another hand grabs my wrist, twisting it sharply. Pain shoots through my arm.

“Gotcha now,” the man holding me says, his breath hot against my ear. His arm tightens around my waist like a steel band, lifting me off my feet. I kick and scream, but it’s useless.

There are too many of them.

“Let me go!” I shout again, my voice raw. “Cam! Cam!”

He doesn’t answer. My heart drops, sinking like a stone in the icy water. Did they pull him under?

Is he—no. I can’t think like that.

He’s alive.

He has to be.

He’s Cam.

He always survives.

If nothing else, he'll survive to save me .

Right?

“She’s feisty,” one of the men says, his tone mocking. “I can see why Ian wanted her.”

“Well, not anymore,” another replies. “Heard she’s ruined.”

The words hit me like a slap. I stop struggling, my body going stiff. “What did you say?” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

The man holding me laughs, cruel and loud. “Oh, sweetheart. We know everything. Ian wasn’t exactly quiet, was he? Everyone knows now. You’re not The Mother’s perfect little prize. You’re just a broken toy.”

His words sting more than they should. I try to shake them off, but they burrow under my skin, sharp and ugly.

“Trey, shut the fuck up. You’ll get us in trouble.”

Trey smirks. He reminds me of Rudy.

“I’m not a toy,” I snap, but my voice wavers. I sound weak. Pathetic.

“That’s right,” Trey says with a sneer. “Not a toy. You’re trash . But don’t worry. We can still have some fun with you.”

“I don’t want nothing to do with that,” the nicer guard mumbles.

My stomach twists violently. I can’t breathe. Their laughter echoes around me, loud and cruel, drowning out my thoughts. They talk about me like I’m not even here, like I’m some object they can pass around.

One of them makes a comment so vulgar it makes my skin crawl. I close my eyes, trying to block it out.

“Stop,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Please, stop.”

“Aw, is the princess scared?” Trey mocks. “What happened to that fire we saw earlier? Don’t give up on us now. We like 'em feisty.”

I grit my teeth, anger flickering through the fear. I hate them. I hate their laughter, their voices, their hands on me.

Most of all, I hate how small they make me feel.

They drag me through the compound, their hands rough and unforgiving. My arms ache from how hard they’re gripping me, but I force myself to focus on something else.

The sound of alarms blaring in the distance.

The smell of smoke curling through the air.

The sight of a fire burning somewhere near the docks.

Cam did this. He’s still fighting. He’s still out there, and he’s tearing this place apart. That thought gives me strength.

It keeps me from falling apart.

“Hey, do you think The Mother will still take her back?” the nicer guard asks.

“Maybe,” Trey replies. “She doesn’t need damaged goods, though. Wouldn't mind if they let us keep her. A little reward for all our hard work.”

They laugh again, and I feel sick. I want to scream, to fight, to claw at them, but I know it won’t work.

Not yet.

They’re too strong. There are too many.

I have to wait. I have to think.

We pass a broken window, the glass jagged and smeared with soot. For a moment, I catch my reflection. My hair is wet and tangled, my face pale and streaked with dirt. I look like a ghost.

But my eyes—they’re not the eyes of a victim.

Not anymore.

Ian’s words echo in my head. You’re ruined. You’re nothing.

No. He’s wrong. They’re all wrong.

I’m not a tool. I’m not their heart. I’m not The Mother’s perfect little doll.

I’m something else now.

Something they don’t understand.

Something they can’t control.

“Ian’s gonna be pissed we didn’t bring her straight to him,” the nicer guard says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“He's a little busy,” Trey snorts.

"Shouldn't one of us go back there and help him?"

"Strict orders from Angelina, remember? Bring her," he squeezes my arm, "back at all costs. Alive."

"But Ian – "

“He’ll get over it. Or he won’t. Either way, she’s ours now.”

“You mean Angelina’s.”

“Right.”

“I mean it, Trey. You’ve seen what they do to people who don’t follow orders. Jesus. The way they just strip the bodies down to carcasses.”

Trey just grunts.

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. Their words make me sick, but they also make me stronger. I don’t know where the strength comes from, but it surges through me, sharp and hot.

I’m not going back to Ian.

I’m not going back to The Mother.

And I’m sure as hell not staying with these two losers.

We turn a corner, and I see an SUV parked nearby. I know if those guards get me in it, I'm dead. My heart pounds.

This is it. My chance.

One of the men loosens his grip on my arm to adjust his hold.

It’s a small movement, barely noticeable, but it’s all I need.

I twist hard, jerking my arm free, and kick the back of his knee.

He stumbles forward, cursing, and I spin around, grabbing the knife from his belt.

My hands are shaking, but I don’t hesitate.

I swing the blade, slashing at his arm. He howls in pain, clutching the wound, and I take off running.

“Get her!” someone shouts behind me.

I don’t look back. My feet pound against the floor, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The tunnels stretch out in front of me, dark and endless, but I don’t stop. I can hear them chasing me, their boots thundering, their voices loud and angry.

My grip tightens on the knife, the blade slick with blood.

I dart down a side alleyway, my heart hammering. The walls press in on me, the air cloying and suffocating. My legs burn, but I keep running.

I have to.

I can’t let them catch me.

The sound of their footsteps grows louder, closer.

Panic claws at my chest, but I push it down.

The air conditioning unit off the back of a building hums so loudly I can't think.

Two huge dumpsters sit next to each other.

I spot the door to one, the metal gleaming faintly in the dim light.

I throw myself at it, pulling the handle with all my strength. The door creaks open

The scent of death pours out.

I don't have time to decide between the scent of death and real death. I dive inside

The humming outside is vibration in here. They'll find me easily if I don't hide myself, so I grab surprisingly lightweight bags and cover myself in them, ignoring the stench and oh -- what is that slime all over my arm?

My chest heaves as I press my back against the door, my hands shaking, throat gagging.

I can still hear their voices, faint and muffled, but they’re getting farther away. They don’t know where I am. Not yet.

The knife is still in my hand, the blade smeared with blood.

My blood? His blood?

I don’t know.

I don’t care.

All that matters is that I’m still alive.

I take a shaky breath, the air sour against my burning lungs as my eyes adjust.

I see used surgical masks. Blood-soaked gauze. Dirty gowns.

And that slick substance on my arm is blood.

Someone else's blood.

Biohazard symbols cover the bags and I realize I'm inside the waste disposal unit for their surgeries. That could be my blood soaking everything.

I can't make noise. Cannot throw up. Can't scream. Can't move.

My thoughts swirl, sharp and jagged, but one thing is clear: I’m not their heart. I’m not their tool. I’m not theirs.

I am me.

I am Cam's.

And I am free.

For now.