Catching Pretty (Lovely Broken Doll #2)

40. Ava

AVA

M y heart lurched with a sickening twist of fear at the thought that Ty had found me.

No, I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t survive that. I couldn’t.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the panic clawing up my throat. Don’t panic. It could be nothing. It had to be nothing. I had to check first.

Sliding out of bed, my bare feet touched the rough wooden floor, grounding me in the present.

I tiptoed to the bedroom door and pressed my ear against it, straining to pick up any sounds in the farmhouse.

A soft creak from the front of the house sent a jolt of adrenaline through me.

My breath hitched, but I forced myself to open the door a crack, just enough to peer out.

In the dim moonlight filtering through the windows, I saw a man entering through the front door.

He wore a mask that obscured most of his face, but even from this distance, I could tell it wasn’t Ty. He wasn’t tall enough, nor did he move like Ty. This man wasn’t as quiet, his steps heavier, more lumbering.

But that only made it worse. It had to be someone from the Society.

My mind spun. How had they found me? I hadn’t even told Ebony where I was, had only mentioned the Sheraton.

And then it struck me like a punch to the gut.

I could hear Ciaran’s voice in my head, sharp and cutting. “…If I were them, looking for you? The first thing I’d do is bug Ebony’s phone in case you called her.”

Of course. They’d traced the call here. Stupid, stupid Ava.

A hollow pit of dread formed in my stomach, and I squeezed my fists tight, fighting back the wave of nausea.

Ciaran was right; it was too dangerous. I wasn’t just risking myself. I was risking anyone who tried to help me.

Just then, Mr. Buckley’s voice cut through the silence, low and firm. “Who are you?”

He appeared from the doorway of the main bedroom, closest to the masked man, determination in his stance, the hard line of his mouth set in defiance.

He didn’t wait for an answer; he raised the rifle, aiming straight at the intruder.

The masked man lunged forward, tackling Mr. Buckley as the rifle went off, the bullet hitting something in the living room with a smash.

I screamed and flinched.

My heart thundered in my chest as the two men grappled, the rifle twisting between them.

Mr. Buckley’s grip wavered as they struggled over the weapon .

“Run, Ava!” Mr. Buckley’s voice tore through the air, desperate and panicked.

But I didn’t run. No, I couldn’t leave him, couldn’t keep running forever. I was sick of hiding, sick of being hunted down. He was fighting for me, and I had to help him. I couldn’t just run.

I scanned the darkened bedroom frantically, my eyes catching on the bedside lamp. I yanked it from the wall, the cord snapping loose, and I sprinted for the living room where the struggle was happening.

Every step thundered in my ears, fear flooding my veins, but I forced it down, focusing on one thing only: stopping this man.

The masked figure was grappling with Mr. Buckley, wrestling for control of the rifle. The old man’s hands trembled as the barrel turned to point at him.

Without thinking, I raised the lamp high and brought it down on the intruder’s head. The impact sent a dull crack through the room, and for a brief second, he faltered, his grip on the rifle loosening.

But he didn’t let go.

Dread clawed up my spine. I needed something else—something stronger. Deadlier.

I raced for the kitchen, the adrenaline pulsing faster than my fear. I snatched a large knife from the block, its cold weight a strange comfort in my hand, a tiny fragment of power in the chaos.

But just as I whirled around, ready to strike, a loud crack exploded through the air. The rifle had fired again.

“No!” The scream ripped from my throat as I watched Mr. Buckley’s body jerk, his face draining of color as he staggered and collapsed to the floor.

My stomach lurched with a violent, nauseating grief. My heart hammered painfully against my chest, my pulse roaring in my ears as I took in the masked man, now turning his gaze—and the rifle—on me.

His eyes narrowed, his movements calm, methodical.

“Stop or I’ll shoot.” His voice was cold, unfamiliar, and unmoved by the life he’d just taken.

A raw instinct flooded my mind, silencing every rational thought. There was no way in hell I was going to let him take me. Not alive.

Without hesitating, I pivoted and sprinted toward the side door, my feet pounding on the wooden floor as I flung myself against it. The knob was cold under my hand, and I twisted it frantically. Locked.

Dammit, no, no, no! I was trapped.

Behind me, I heard the sharp click of the rifle as he pulled the trigger. But there was no bang.

I froze for half a second, processing it. Out of bullets. Thank Christ.

I turned to face the masked man as he tossed the useless rifle aside, tightening my grip on the knife.

The tiles were cool under my bare feet, and I spread my stance, trying to remember everything Ty had drilled into me.

Keep your weight balanced. Stay light on your feet. Watch his eyes, not the weapon. It all came rushing back in fragments, adrenaline pushing it to the surface.

The man chuckled, low and dark as he raised his hands to me. “Give me the knife before you hurt yourself, princess.”

I swallowed the tremor of fear and steadied my breath. I lunged toward him, feigning to the left before shifting my weight and stabbing forward with all my strength.

The blade sliced through his shirt and bit into his side.

He lurched back, clutching his wound with a curse, his cocky smile twisting into a grimace.

“Bitch,” he spat, his voice laced with anger. “You’ll pay for that.”

He lunged forward, but I sidestepped, ducking under his reach and circling back to his exposed side. The world narrowed to this single, brutal moment.

I didn’t think—I acted, gripping the knife tightly and driving it into his abdomen. I felt the blade sink in, deeper than I’d meant, and a hot, sticky warmth coated my hand.

His eyes widened as the color drained from his face, and he staggered back, clutching at the wound with both hands, a strangled curse escaping his lips.

His knees buckled, and he dropped heavily to the floor, gasping as his blood began to pool around him.

My heart thundered as I stared at him, the harsh reality of what I’d done sinking in, but I shoved it down. I didn’t have time to think about it.

Mr. Buckley!

I spun around, racing across the room to my kind old neighbor, who lay motionless, the pool of blood around him darkening the floorboards.

My knees hit the ground, pain flaring which I ignored, my knife clattering to the tiles as I slid beside him, my hands trembling as I searched for a sign, any sign, that he was still alive.

His shirt was dark and sticky, the blood seeping from the wound in his chest.

But then I saw it—a faint rise and fall. He was breathing, just barely.

“Oh God, Mr. Buckley?” I whispered, panic clawing at my voice.

His eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain, and he coughed, a thin line of blood bubbling on his lips. “Ava…”

“I’m going to get help,” I said, forcing a calmness I didn’t feel.

I had to move quickly, had to get someone here before it was too late. Even if it meant I was risking my own life.

I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding as I reached for the old rotary phone.

My fingers fumbled over the receiver, but as I pressed it to my ear, dread pooled in my stomach.

Silence. No dial tone.

I tried again, slamming the phone down and picking it back up, but it was dead.

They must have cut the phone line.

No!

My mind raced, every thought colliding in panic as I stared at Mr. Buckley, his chest barely lifting with each ragged breath. He wasn’t going to last long.

I cursed under my breath, my hands pressing down harder on the wound, feeling the warm, sticky blood seeping through the tea towel.

“Hang on, Mr. Buckley,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I tried to steady my hands. I needed to do something. Anything.

Ty . Ty was the only one who could help him now.

I had to fetch him, to beg for his help. I’d promise to return to my prison, return to therapy, anything , but I’d do it to save Mr. Buckley.

I had no choice. There was no one else.

I grabbed his hand, pressing it firmly on the tea towel over his wound, feeling him flinch beneath my touch.

“Keep this here,” I said, my voice low but urgent. “The phone’s dead. I need to run and get help, but you hold on, okay? Just hold on.”

His eyes were glassy, but he nodded weakly, his hand clenching over the towel with whatever strength he had left.

I stood, a surge of desperation pushing me forward as I sprinted for the door, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope.

But just as I reached for the handle, the door swung open.

A second masked man stood there, blocking my escape. The sight of him made my blood run cold.

He towered over me, his figure shadowed by the dim moonlight spilling in from behind him.

No. This couldn’t be happening. My pulse hammered in my throat, and I took a shaky step back, panic clawing at my insides.

“No… no, no, no,” I whispered, dread pooling in my stomach.

The masked man’s gaze swept over the scene, and he shook his head, his eyes narrowing on me. The casual way he looked at his friend’s blood-streaked body on the floor made bile rise in my throat.

“You’ve made the Sochai very angry with your little games, Ava.” His unfamiliar voice was low and mocking. His eyes met mine, glinting with a dark, twisted amusement. “But no more. You’re coming with me.”

The realization hit me hard—I’d slipped through Ty’s grasp, only to fall into something far darker, something I might not survive.