Ash
I come awake to raised voices.
They’re not in the same room as me and I’m not in the back of the car any longer. That’s about the only two things I’m certain of. Well, that, and I’ve got the mother of all headaches.
Fucking Wilson.
I’m lying on something soft at least. But my hands are still zip-tied behind my back, which sucks because my wrist isn’t fucking happy at all.
With no idea if I’m alone or not, I keep my eyes closed and my breathing as even as I can. The argument continues in the other room, but there’s nothing to suggest anyone’s in here with me. It’s quiet.
I risk opening my eyes the tiniest fraction.
I’m on a bed. In Morgan’s room, I think, judging by the windows I’m facing. I can’t see the rest of the room from this angle, so I either lie here and do nothing or risk them knowing I’m awake.
I’ve never been good at sitting still.
As quietly as I can, I try to push myself upright. It takes a few goes, because not having the use of your arms makes it really fucking hard. Especially when one of those arms ends in a damaged wrist. Fuck them for setting back my recovery.
When I finally get into a sitting position, I have to take a minute to register what I’m seeing. I’m alone. And Morgan’s room looks exactly the same as it always has.
It’s missing his photos and other personal items, but the chest of drawers is where it has always been. The curtains are the same. Even the fucking bedding is too.
I know he and his dad weren’t given much time to get their things and go, but it’s like he still lives here.
Except the voices I hear definitely don’t belong to Morgan and his dad.
I recognise Wilson’s but not the others.
The door is ajar, not locked. Either they don’t consider me a threat, or they think I’m still unconscious. Considering I’m still zip-tied and injured, I’m assuming it’s the former.
I know exactly where the floor creaks in Morgan’s room, and I know where to step to avoid it. Even though my head hurts like a bitch, the adrenaline flooding my veins as I near the door makes it bearable. But there’s no easing the ache behind my ribs where Cal should be.
I wish I could feel him.
I only had our bond for a few hours, but I miss it already, and I want it back.
“What the fuck are we gonna do with him?”
I go still.
The voices were muffled before, but now they’re raised and I heard that loud and clear. It wasn’t Stokes or Wilson. Whoever they brought me to are far from pleased. Cold trickles down my spine like icy fingers because the implications of that aren’t good.
Understatement, Ash.
I tune back in as Wilson answers him.
“Can’t you just scare him like you did Webb senior?”
There’s a loud scoff. “That was Fox.”
“You saying you don’t do that sort of thing?” Wilson again, and there’s a challenge in his tone that’s hard to miss. “Because I know that’s bollocks.”
“Careful.”
“Why? You scared of getting your hands dirty?”
It sounds like there’s a scuffle, then a bang that shakes the walls. “I’m saying Ash Norton seems to have found himself some dangerous friends. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, so I suggest you shut up and let the grown-ups talk.”
I’d kill to be in the same room and see the expression on Wilson’s face. I fully expect him to kick off, but instead I hear him hiss, “We don’t know because you won’t fucking tell us.”
“And you should be thankful for that.”
It falls silent then.
So Stokes and Wilson don’t know about shifters. I guess it makes sense; it’s not a secret to be shared lightly. But if it wasn’t fear, then what made them toss their morals aside and get involved in torturing Morgan’s dad? Money?
My stomach turns at the thought that’s all it took to ruin someone else’s life.
I’m also really fucking grateful that whoever’s in that room with him seems to be scared of the Wild Wolves.
“They’ll know he’s missing,” one of them says. “We can’t keep him here. The last thing we need is the fucking Wolves finding out and coming for him.”
“How will they know where he is?” That’s Stokes.
There’s a beat of silence and then harsh laughter. “Believe me, they’ll find him sooner or later. They’re probably already watching this place.”
Are they? I can’t remember if Morgan told me that or not.
I might’ve been shoved down out of sight, but hopefully someone’s spotted Stokes and Wilson driving in. Surely it won’t take much to figure out they took me? Morgan will’ve gone to pick me up and smelt them there. Isn’t that how it works?
Fuck.
Really wishing I’d asked more questions instead of giving them the silent treatment for so long.
They’re still talking in the room—well, arguing back and forth about what to do with me. It’s hard to make out what they’re saying with everyone speaking at once, but my ears prick up when it suddenly goes silent.
What the fuck did I miss?
“It’ll need to look like an accident.” Wilson’s voice is quiet but deadly serious. “The investigation will be thorough, so there can’t be any room for doubt.”
And wait, what?
My blood turns to ice, nausea making my head swim.
That same harsh laughter again. “We know what we’re doing. It’ll look like he lost control while driving with an injury.”
“That’s good. He’s already hit a deer.” His tone’s heavy with sarcasm. “We can spin it that he lied about Morgan being the driver.”
My heart pounds loud and insistent, urging me to fucking do something because, Jesus Christ, they’re talking about killing me. Like it’s something they do every day.
I need to get out of here.
Easier said than done with my hands still secured behind my back, but I can’t just stand here and do nothing.
With shaking hands, I turn so I can grip the door handle and gently ease it wide enough to fit through. I halt, breath caught behind the lump in my throat as I strain to hear movement.
Nothing.
They’re still discussing my death.
Making as little noise as physically possible, I slip out into the hallway. Out here it’s easy to identify what room they’re in: Morgan’s dad’s room. It’s at the end of the hallway. The bathroom is in between me and them.
Thank god Morgan’s house is old and big. Built before they made walls paper-thin. That’s probably the only reason they haven’t heard me.
I’ve had years of practice avoiding the creaky floorboards on the stairs and in the hallway. Muscle memory has me treading carefully as I slowly head towards the top of the stairs. Even if they thought I was unconscious, I can’t believe no one’s come out to check on me. More fucking fool them.
I make it all the way down the stairs unchallenged.
If I can just get outside—
“Going somewhere?”
I freeze as footsteps sound on the tiled kitchen floor, then a man appears in the doorway. One I recognise from the hospital.
The fucker who took my phone. “You.”
He grins. “Me.” He’s got a big fucking knife in one hand and his phone in the other.
With my hands bound, I don’t stand a chance of making it to the front door and opening it before he reaches me.
If my hands were free, it’d be fifty-fifty, but they’re not.
The back patio doors would be easier to open, but he’s blocking the doorway, so I can’t go that way either.
I’m fucked, basically.
I glare daggers at him and he stares back, looking bored. Like I’m barely worth bothering with.
They’re going to kill you anyway.
That harsh reality makes the decision for me.
I’ve got nothing to lose.
He raises his knife, giving it a pointed look. “If I were you, I’d get back upstairs befor—”
Dropping a shoulder, I barrel towards him at full speed, catching him chest high and off guard.
He careens backwards into the kitchen, smashing into the table.
Momentum carries me after him—I underestimated how hard it’d be to stop—and I tumble on top of him as he falls to the floor.
His head hits the tiles with an audible crack.
It doesn’t knock him out, but he’s dazed enough that he doesn’t try to stop me as I struggle to my feet.
Not sure that matters because thick walls or not, we’ve made enough noise to alert those upstairs that something’s going on down here. Footsteps sound above as I rush over to the patio doors, praying they’re not locked.
The latch clicks down so easily I could cry. It’s awkward sliding them open with my hands behind me, but I somehow manage to get them wide enough to slip through.
Morgan’s old garden backs onto the forest. One I know like the back of my hand since we played in there more times than I can remember when we were kids.
I know where to hide.
If I can get to the trees, maybe I stand a chance of getting out of this alive. Heart pounding, I run across the grass, heading to the gap in the hedge that’s been there for years.
Shouts erupt behind me, too loud, too close, but I don’t look back. Can’t if I don’t want to fall on my arse. Not sure I want to see what’s coming for me anyway.
I’m almost there: ten feet, eight, six, four, two. Fuck, I can see the forest on the other side. Branches scratch my neck and my face as I barge through the hedge, pain erupting all over my skin where they draw blood, but I ignore it all. My sole focus is the trees on the other side.
And freedom.
I’m almost there, seconds away from escaping into the forest when hands grab me, yanking hard on the zip ties.
Pain jolts up my arm and I cry out, but far worse is the realisation that it’s over. That there’s no chance of escape now.
The branches scrape my face all over again when I’m roughly pulled backwards through the hedge, but this time I feel every last one of them.
No.
I was so fucking close.
I stumble back into the garden. I have a second to register it was Wilson who pulled me back when another guy steps up and punches me right in the jaw. My head snaps to the side, teeth cutting into my cheek from the force of the blow, and only Wilson’s grip on my arm keeps me upright.
Blood coats my tongue, coppery and sharp. I barely have time to straighten before there’s a gun pointed at me.
My heart stutters before setting off at a gallop.
“Hayes,” Wilson hisses, glaring at the guy with the gun. “Put that away. We can’t fucking shoot him.”
“Why not?”
“It has to be an accident, remember? We’ve fucking been through this.”
Another guy joins them, the air of authority hard to miss. “Get him in the car and get rid of him.”
I struggle against Wilson’s grip as he pulls me back to the house, digging my heels in. All it does is earn me another punch to the face. My right eye this time, and I stagger back.
They don’t wait for me to recover. Grabbing an arm each, Hayes and Wilson drag me back to the house and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
The patio door looms ahead. Morgan’s house used to be my second home, somewhere I felt safe and welcome. Looking at it now, it’s never felt so foreboding.
This can’t be it.
This can’t be the end of my life when I’ve only just found someone who’s mine. My chest aches when I think of Cal, of the bond that we’ve had so little time to explore, to understand. I’m not sure how it works when one of us dies, but I can’t imagine it’s pleasant. I don’t want to do that to him.
I don’t want to die full stop.
“No.” I give it one more go as we get near the door, bracing a foot on the wall and shoving backwards with everything I have left.
Wilson’s hold on me falters. I whip round and headbutt him, blood erupting from his nose, but I’m pulled back against a hard chest, the edge of a blade once again pressed to my throat.
“I can’t shoot you,” Hayes snarls. “But I can slit your fucking throat. Pretty sure I can work that into an accident.”
A low growl sounds from behind us, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Let him go.”
I recognise that voice. Straining to look over my shoulder, I could cry when I see Jet emerge from the gap in the hedge. He’s got his own wicked-looking knife in his hand.
“I said. Let. Him. Go.” Jet’s pretty fucking scary when he’s not even trying. Right now? He’s terrifying.
No one moves though, and the knife remains at my throat.
The guy who I think is in charge laughs. “Pierce Blackwell. Out here all on your own?”
Jet snarls. “My brothers’ll be here soon.”
“Not soon enough.” He glances at Hayes. “Kill him.”