Page 168 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

I twist, trying to get free, but the movement just makes the ropes burn worse. Panic claws at my throat, sharp and immediate, cutting through the drug haze.

“Ax,” I croak, my voice barely working. “Ax, wake up.”

He blinks slowly, laboriously, like his eyes are glued shut and it takes everything he has to pry them open.

The shouting gets closer. Men’s voices overlapping—rough, angry, commanding. Then silence again, sudden and complete, which is somehow worse than the noise.

And out of nowhere, a shadow materializes beside me.

He moves fast—tall, dressed in black, face covered with a mask that makes him look inhuman. A knife flashes in his hand, blade catching the dim light. The ropes snap loose with quick, efficient cuts.

He grabs my arm, yanking me up before my body’s ready to move. My legs don’t work right, folding under me like they’ve forgotten their purpose.

“Axel!” I scream, or try to scream, stumbling after the masked man. “Ax!”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t acknowledge me. Just keeps pulling me forward with iron fingers wrapped around my bicep.

I dig my heels in—useless, completely useless. My legs won’t listen, my brain won’t catch up, and he’s so much stronger than me. Another masked man appears, lifting me like I weigh nothing, carrying me toward the back door.

The night air slams into me, cold and sharp, and I gasp like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. It fills my lungs, shocking after the stale warehouse air.

“Axel!” I try to scream again, but when I hear my voice it’s barely a whisper, weak and pathetic. “Axel!”

No answer. Just more shouting behind us, more chaos.

Another explosion goes off—something metallic tearing through glass, a sound like the world ending. The man carrying me doesn’t even flinch, just keeps moving.

He throws me into a car. Literally throws me. I land hard across the back seat, my shoulder slamming into the opposite door. The door slams shut before I can turn around, before I can orient myself.

The engine roars to life.

I reach for the handle, fingers scrabbling uselessly. They won’t close, won’t grip. The drugs pull me under again, heavy and irresistible, like hands dragging me down into dark water.

The last thing I hear is the gunfire fading into distance, becoming background noise, becoming memory.

Then darkness swallows me whole.

When I wake, it’s dark out.

The quality of light is different—softer, natural. The air smells like pine and something clean—soap, maybe laundry detergent. My throat’s dry as paper, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

I blink against the warm glow of a lamp in the corner and realize I’m in a bed. A real bed with a headboard and pillows and everything, not a warehouse floor or a car seat.

A ceiling fan turns lazily above me, the blades casting rotating shadows.

Curtains are drawn halfway across a window, letting in slices of moonlight.

The sheets smell like detergent and cedar, clean and expensive.

I push up on my elbows, groaning as my head throbs in protest. My body feels like it’s been beaten, every muscle sore. But I’m not tied. My clothes are the same ones I was wearing—leggings and t-shirt, wrinkled and dirty but intact. My shoes are gone.

Outside the window, I see trees. Endless trees stretching into darkness, no streetlights or buildings or any sign of civilization.

Shit. I’m at the cabin. The one from before.

I hear voices down the hall—low, male, too calm for the situation. The words filter through the door.

“—wasn’t supposed to grab her like that.”