“I’m sorry, sir—”
But before I hear an end to Sara’s sentence, I hear her gasp.
A second later, there’s a low thud and a shocked cry.
The son of a bitch hit her. He put his hands on her.
I rush to the door and inch it open to peer out so I can figure out what’s happening.
I can see the eagle-tattooed man. He’s pushed Sara up against the corridor wall that serves as a gateway between the staff quarters and the main restaurant. It doesn’t get much traffic, which is probably why he’s followed her here in the first place.
I catch a glimpse of Sara’s face. Her head is craned back in an awkward position, held in place by Eagle Tattoo’s meaty paw clamped around her neck.
“You want my cock, don’t you, you little slut? Just like your whore friend who ran away,” he growls at her, licking her neck as she whimpers in terror underneath his clutches. “Don’t look so scared, baby. You’re gonna love it.”
I back away from the door, frozen with horror.
No matter how far I run, it seems violence is destined to plague me. And I am in no position to confront it, either.
Not in my current condition.
But Sara... Sara needs help.
Your friend needs you.
What are you gonna do, Esme?
13
Artem
Picacho Del Diablo, Mexico
You wake up.
It’s before dawn and the air is frigid and every inch of your body hurts.
But you wake up anyway.
You get out of bed. Shoes on. You run a ten-mile trail throughout the mountains. The cold makes your lungs scream, but the altitude no longer affects you the way it once did.
When your legs refuse to go any farther, return to the cabin.
Get the gun.
Creep into the woods. Find animal tracks. Follow them.
A doe and her two fawns, camped in the underbrush. The mother and one of her children get away.
The other is not so lucky.
Bring the carcass back to the cabin. Sharpen the knife.
Skin the deer, dress it, hang it to dry.
Go down to the ravine to rinse the blood and sweat from your body.
Morning light now illuminates the mountains.
At the riverside, you shadow box and lift boulders. No weights to be found out here. The rocks serve that purpose.
Pick up the heaviest one you can find. Carry it up the hill. Again. Again.
Your muscles cry out for rest. For a moment’s respite.
No.
Another rep. Another.
Sun is high overhead now.
Then—target practice. Lying in the dirt. Plinking the rock targets a hundred yards away, two hundred yards away, three hundred yards away.
Don’t miss. Don’t you dare fucking miss, you son of a bitch.
You don’t.
Sun beginning to set. You run again until you can’t anymore.
You return to the cabin.
You drink whiskey until you black out.
And when the morning comes, you do it all over again.
14
Artem
The water’s cold this morning. Colder than usual. Snowmelt coming down from the top of the mountain range, I bet. Winter is thawing.
I force myself to stay in for a minute longer than I want. To plunge my head beneath the surface of the water and stay there, stay there, stay there until my lungs are crying out for oxygen.
And then just a moment longer.
To prove a point to—fuck, to someone, though I don’t know who the hell cares. There’s no one out here but me.
I get out of the water about fifteen minutes after I’ve gotten in. Ice cold droplets sink into my skin, but I shiver and air dry as I walk over to the rock where my clothes are laid out.
I glance down at my body as I dress again.
I have three new scars glistening with the river water. Two from the bullet wounds and one from the stab wound that’s left a long, thin lightning bolt down the side of my torso.
My stomach is a mess of callused tissue. That one took the longest to heal.
Beneath the scar is new muscle. Fresh muscle. Lean and taut and powerful.
My body is a weapon in and of itself. The way it is meant to be.
I plan on using it to its full advantage.
I will not be left lying in the dirt again.
I head up the steep pathway that leads away from the ravine. The climb used to be difficult for me, but with time and day after day of running and hefting rocks, it’s become laughably easy.
Once I’m back on relatively flat surface, I walk fast towards the cabin. These trails are as familiar to me now as the back of my hand. Little by little, I’ve made this land my own.
Traps lurk throughout the woods. Some to catch forest creatures for food. Some to catch any fools who dare wander too close.
The trunks bear markings that point the way to this trail or that one. Others are scarred with bullet holes.
Some from me.
Some from the night everything changed.
I pick up the trail that leads directly to the cabin. As I mount the highest point of the ridge, I hear a whine.
Sighing, I glance to the side to see big brown eyes staring at me from behind a large boulder.
“Fuck,” I growl. “Not you again.”
The dog limps towards me. He looks like shit. A paw that’s twisted inward and fur matted all to hell.
“Fuck off,” I say, walking past him.
The dog whines again like he’s saying something back to me.
I sigh with exasperation. “Is it too fucking much to ask to be left alone?”
The dog blinks up at me, apparently shocked by my reaction. Or maybe he’s just trying to figure out how crazy I was.
According to the people in town, I crossed over into wild, insane mountain man about two and a half months ago.
They’re not wrong.
I ignore the mangy fleabag and keep walking. But I can hear the mutt trailing behind me.
When I get to the cabin, I head inside and check my alcohol supply.
I have five or six bottles of the strongest shit I could find in this fucking hick town. That’ll probably only hold me over for two days.
