Page 17 of Never Lost (The Unchained #3)

HER

I t wasn’t until I finally collapsed in exhaustion in a patch of short, soft grass on the edge of what I assumed was someone’s fussy rock garden—maybe three, maybe five, maybe seven blocks away in what I could only pray was the right direction.

Only then, curled up there, helpless, barely conscious, nearly nauseous, taking rattling gasps of air, harpooned by searing pain that at times seemed to almost be strengthening, did I allow myself to confirm that he was smart enough not to have followed me.

Not that some stupid, delusional, self-destructive part of me didn’t still hope he had .

But if it came down to a choice between him holding my hand while I breathed through this and watching him get thrown on the ground by the police and dragged away because Daddy had triggered his tracking chip, the choice was clear.

It was funny that that —that every second I remained in his presence, I was putting him in danger, and that I had to get away from him—was the thought running through my head as my skin was being melted off my body, minutes after he’d fucked my mouth to oblivion. But it was.

That and the fact that he so clearly had a plan.

Clearly.

At this point, I hadn’t a clue what time of night it was.

But I did know that as the minutes ticked by, my standard studying-in-the-library lie—knowing how my father’s mind worked—was going to get flimsier and flimsier.

It was basic math. Daughter missing for hours with no phone + forbidden to see boy + boy instantly trackable by implanted chip = jackpot for Daddy.

Of course I had to consider the possibility that my boy didn’t know why I’d run, or thought I hadn’t figured out what he’d been doing.

That I hadn’t figured out why he’d said what he said, or done what he did.

That he didn’t realize that what he’d been trying to accomplish—saving my life—was a damn sight more important than protecting me from hearing him say he’d plotted to destroy my entire family. And that he hated me.

When he still hadn’t even fucking said he loved me.

Yes, and.

Eyes closed, my mind replayed a supercut: the marble walls, the clink of the cuffs, the terrifying way his body moved like he owned mine. Like he owned me. He’d even said it:

Mine.

And I’d been shaking and soaked and confused out of my mind, like my body couldn’t decide if it wanted to escape or collapse into him.

But what if that was the point? What if he was playing a role so dark it scared him just to wear it because that was the only way to undo the cuffs, to keep Resi fooled, to keep me alive?

What if he already knew me well enough to know exactly where I could take pain, and where I couldn’t?

And if that was his way of keeping me from breaking, then maybe it wasn’t hate at all.

Maybe it was love, in the only language we were allowed to speak.

I hate the way she’s the only one who’s ever looked at me like I’m someone worth saving.

He did hate it. I believed that. Because for him, that meant being a person, and he didn’t fully know how to do that yet.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t believe I was worth saving, too.

But my burned throat and scream-weary mouth were as parched as the sand, and stray gravel from the rock garden was digging into the open pustules of my burns alongside the dirty, sticky, gauzy, torn fabric of the stupid fucking lacy thing I was wearing.

When I’d been running, the pain hadn’t mattered, but now that I’d collapsed, it was back, and even raising my head off the grass seemed impossible.

And anyway, the burner phone Erica had given me was dead. Even if it hadn’t been, I had no real means to stop the wheels Resi had put in motion. I didn’t even know what the wheels were , really.

But I had to try . I had to do what I’d hoped I’d conveyed to him that I would do—find and look after Maeve so he had time to do whatever he needed to do to hatch his plan.

The plan that he so clearly had. The plan pretty much had to be to stop Resi and save us all because at this point anything less would be failure.

But I wasn’t seeing to anything. I wasn’t even moving. I was lying in some grass, curled up like some red-and-purple pus-covered worm. I should be dead. The only reason I wasn’t was that Resi thought she had neutralized me as a threat. That I wouldn’t, and couldn’t, help anyone, let alone him.

And right now, I sure didn’t feel much like a threat.

I was grateful for the cool night air on my skin, at least. Even though I didn’t deserve it.

A brief hissing noise hit my ear, and to my surprise, tiny drops of rain began to pelt me.

No. Not rain. Not here .

A scrabbling in the rocks by my head told me someone, or something, was approaching. Fuck. Raising myself partially off the now-damp grass, I managed to partially roll my body over with a groan, heart rate quickening, knowing that even if I could get up, there’d be no chance of escape.

But there was no need. Through my blurred vision, in the partial moonlight, I could spot a dog, a mottled blue-gray border collie with one pale eye, panting and jumping around me in excitement, not quite getting the picture.

She turned her wet nose under my arm, sniffing furiously, and I could just make out a name on the collar: Thalia.

The Greek muse of comedy. How appropriate, because this exercise in improv was all becoming a brilliant farce. Might as well send in the clowns.

As much as I knew I needed help—and water, and rest, and aloe, so much aloe—I prayed that by some miracle this dog, collared and well-fed and well-groomed, was unattached to a person.

I didn’t want to be found by a person. I hated people.

People enslaved and tortured and killed others for no reason at all and turned their victims into people who enslaved and tortured and killed others in turn, fueling an endless water wheel of pain and grief no one seemed to know how to stop.

Plus, a person would call an ambulance, and an ambulance meant police.

It meant giving statements. It meant contacting my parents and being forced to confess everything I had seen.

And worst of all, who I had seen. I had no reason to think that my dad, once he heard that one of them was him , would give a fuck about the rest of it, even if it meant his own downfall.

And I had no reason to think that whoever owned that dog, especially in a neighborhood like this, would give one, either.

“Miss?” A cell phone light cast the vaguest heat on my face. It was accompanied by the voice of a young person of indeterminate gender. “Miss?” They turned to someone in the distance.

“What.” My attempt to reply came out as a groan.

Shoes crunched on rocks as the person kneeled, though they didn’t touch me. “Shhh. It’s okay. My—my mistress is a nurse. Well, sort of.”

I’d been found by a slave. Well, fantastic. One thing was for sure: Whoever this mistress was, nurse or not, I’d rather wither and die out here than interact with her.

“Ivy! Ivy! Come quick!”

Before I could remark that it was an odd way to address a mistress, Thalia, the collie, whimpered, her warm, furry body pressed against me protectively. That I was okay with. This person might own slaves, but at least she had a nice dog.

Another pair of footsteps joined the first, then more crunching.

“Shit. Oh, shit. What happened to—” A cool hand pressed to my forehead, my throat, feeling for breath, a pulse. Smoothed back my hair. Startled by the gentle touch, I wasn’t sure whether to recoil or lean into it.

“Wait.” A second light shone closer to my pupils. “Louisa? Little Loulou? Is that you?”

“Huh?”

“I-I’m Ivy. Ethan’s friend. Oh, you remember me, don’t you? No, of course you don’t.”

But I did, and she’d once been more than Ethan’s friend.

They used to date, and I remembered her as tall and thin and stylish and enviably gorgeous, like all of his girlfriends.

But unlike most of them, also smart and nice.

After they’d broken up, she had stayed friends with my brother—partying and drinking and using, of course, but I’d still enjoyed seeing her every once in a while.

When Ethan disappeared, I lost touch with Ivy, too, and it seemed safe to assume that her life had gone much the way of his.

But what if it hadn’t?

What if she’d married some rich jerk and lived in this neighborhood and owned a gaggle of slaves and?—

“P-please.” I jerked my body away from her touch.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Ivy interrupted. “Don’t try to talk. Just lie still. God only knows what injuries you have. I’m going to touch you to check, okay?”

I felt a light pressure on my crusted-over eyelid, which refused to open. The chemise was bunched up and thrown aside again. A smooth hand slid into mine.

“Can you squeeze? Okay, not really. I’ll call for help. Can you tell me—no, shit, scratch that. I told you not to talk.” She seemed to be digging deep for some nursing training that she hadn’t paid much attention to the first time around.

I groaned more insistently, trying to choke out the one thing I needed to say before I gave up on trying to talk altogether. “Please,” I spat. “Please don’t call the police.”

“But—”

“No!” I said, as frustrated as a barely verbal toddler.

She sighed. “Louisa, listen. I was an addict. I OD’d twice.

The only reason I’m alive is because both times, my friends drove me to the hospital, dumped me off at the entrance, and drove away.

Believe me. I get it. I won’t call the police.

I won’t even ask you what happened if you don’t want me to.

But you do need help. Luckily, I can help, but the problem is, we’re a mile away from my house, and we’re in the middle of a golf course. ”

Well, shit. That explained the “rain.” It was a sprinkler. Figures I’d end up on a golf course of all places. The way my luck was going, Daddy probably had an early morning round scheduled.

“Hold on. I’ve got an idea.”