Page 64 of Thorns of Blood

“He will,” she agreed. “But it will be too late.”

I narrowed my eyes on her. “Why do you want to help?”

Her smile never faltered. “Like I said, I want Santiago.”

“You already have him,” I pointed out. “You’re his mistress.”

Something passed her expression, but it was schooled too quickly. “If you want to run, we have to do it now. Time is of the essence, Louisa.”

She called me by my twin’s name. Even after a year in captivity, people didn’t know any better. Did it mean that my twin was out in the world with her lover, free and happy? Maybe I could seek them out. They would help me and my baby.

“Okay.”

Victory flashed in her eyes, and although I hated seeing it, I focused on what had to be done so I’d get freedom.

I wouldn’t get another chance like this, especially after I gave birth.

An hour later, I ran through the woods as best as I could in my condition. I paused to catch my breath, leaning against a tree. My eyes darted around, scanning the area for the line of thinning trees that would tell me I was close.

The rain was falling in sheets, reflecting the pain between my legs, and it didn’t take long before I was drenched and out of breath.

I knew I wouldn’t be safe until I was out of Venezuela, thousands of miles away from Santiago and his cartel. Someway, somehow, I would succeed. Even if I had to die. As long as my baby was born in some semblance of a safe environment.

And so, ignoring the pain between my legs, I started running again.

The fear of being caught propelled me forward, adrenaline surging through my veins, fueling my endurance. But it was the thought of seeing my sister again, of finally being free, that truly kept me going.

Just as I reached the last line of woods, I came up short as I spotted a car. I recognized it immediately. The black Escaladethat was reserved only for The Mistress. Why was she here? That wasn’t part of her plan. She was going to keep the guards distracted, and instead she’d brought them to me.

Trap, trap, trap.

My mind repeated the words like a broken record.

I pulled back into the shadows of the tree, making myself as small as possible.

Then the window of the car lowered, and I could see her red lipstick even from here, issuing orders.

In the next heartbeat, two men moved toward me and I turned on my heel. I ran as fast as I could, back toward Santiago, the irony of it not escaping me. I ran and ran, my feet tripping over wet branches.

And then I was tackled, my back hitting the wet ground with a force that stole my breath.

“Time to slice you open, Russian whore.”

With thunder cracking through the sky, shaking the earth, I was held down as a man was brought forward.

“Cut her open.”

I thrashed against his iron grip, screaming and sobbing, my pleas for mercy swallowed by the storm. Tears mingled with rain, streaking down my face like rivers of despair.

Then it came—the searing, jagged pain ripping through my stomach. The first slice, cold and merciless.

I howled my agony into the deafening thunder, my voice raw, my soul unraveling. The world blurred, spinning into shadow until everything dissolved into black.

I jerked awake, a set of hands on my shoulders and a dream fresh on my mind. I blinked over and over again until a familiar figure came into focus.

Giovanni.

“You had another nightmare,” he said, studying me closely.