Page 22 of Silas

I hear a muffled whimper from the partially ajar dormer window above the porch roof. A slap of flesh against flesh. A pained whimper.

“Bud, please—” a small voice, feminine, dainty, pained. “Stop, Bud. Please stop.”

A sharp smack, hand against face.

Silence.

I can’t help her.

I tiptoe around Papa’s truck. Gravel digs into my bare feet, but I ignore it. It’s nothing against the ache of my ribs, and even less compared to the tantalizing idea of freedom.

I just have to make it to the gate. Half a mile of gravel driveway. I can make it.

I hold my breath as I round the bend, putting trees between me and the house. My heart rate ratchets until I’m panting, even though I’m tiptoeing as cautiously as I did through the house. I step on a sharp piece of rock and feel my foot open up.

I risk a look back; nothing but shadows lurk behind me.

A long straight downhill stretch, now. Cottonwoods and pines and elms line the driveway. The moon is high and full. My breath puffs in a white cloud—it’s cold outside. I barely feel it through the adrenaline pumping through me.

The gate is just ahead, six feet tall chain-link with razor wire across the top. A wrist-thick chain loops through the post and the gate, secured with a gigantic combination lock.

Three-six-six-seven. Mama’s birthday.

I fumble the code twice before the hasp clicks and drops open. The chain is heavy, clanking loudly against the gate when I drop it. My heart clatters in my ears, and I stare up the driveway, waiting for the shout.

It never comes.

I haul at the gate, dragging it open a few inches—just enough to squeeze through.

On the other side, I step off the gravel of the driveway and onto the cold blacktop of the public highway.

A sob shivers of me—I did it.

I’m free.

Now I just have tostayfree.

I stumble in a jog, not caring which direction I’m going because it doesn’t matter. I just have to getaway.

Get away.

The cold starts to leach into my muscles, and the pain of my injured ribs and bruised kidney makes each step pure torture. The cold air hits my lungs like a spear. Tears trickle—I won’t get far in this state. It doesn’t matter—I have to try.

I won’t go back.

I run.

A semi roars past me, not even slowing. The wind of its passage knocks me into the grass at the side of the road.

A car passes—this one is low, sleek, and old. Silver, lit by the moon. It whooshes past me and then stops. Parks.

A figure unfolds from the driver’s seat. A man. Tall, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. He’s wearing a black suit with a white button-down, no tie. The moon illuminates his features as I stumble to a halt a few feet from him.

His face is carved from pure, perfect marble by the hand of God himself, symmetrical, angular. His jawline is razor-sharp and hard as a cliff face, with reddish stubble on his jaw and copper hair buzzed to the skin on the sides, short on top and swept to one side.

He’s the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen.

His arms stretch the sleeves of his suit jacket, and his thighs bulge against the legs of his slacks. His hands dangle at his sides, curled into loose fists. His eyes bore into me—he radiates lethal intensity. I’ve met enough of Papa’s men to know a killer when I see one.