Chapter 21 Annabelle
I wake to the taste of blood and the metallic bite of fear. For a moment, I’m weightless, drifting in that thin, gray space between nowhere and nothing. My mind claws for purchase, and then the pounding hits. My skull. My ribs. My heart.
A groan slips from my cracked lips before I even know I’m awake.
Lantern light glints off dripping vines in a lean-to of saplings and rope on the riverbank.
A low fire pit hisses at its center, embers sputtering in the rain’s rhythm.
A few charred logs still burn, scarlet embers winking like dying stars.
My head lolls to the side as water sluices at my feet.
Rain hammers the branches overhead, each drop like handfuls of gravel against the sapling roof.
Thunder rumbles, distant and low. A sudden gust rattles the structure, shards of rain slicing through gaps in the lattice, drumming cold against my skin.
Every thunderclap jolts the shelter like a freight train, and I know, out here, the storm is as much an adversary as the man who bound me.
A flash of lightning strikes, so bright it feels like a surgeon’s lamp, and my heart hammers in my chest—like the crash of a skid-car at Sacramento General.
The air stinks of gasoline, damp earth, and smoke. Wind scours the shelter, making poles creak like dying bones. My wrists burn where the rope bites deep—raw skin scraped until even the nerves go silent.
Derek.
Where is he? Does he know?
The thought jolts through me, but panic crashes faster when a low, triumphant chuckle cuts through thunder: Mike Bishop.
The fog lifts just enough to reveal his face.
I pull my hands apart once, hard, but the bonds don’t budge. My chest heaves.
He crouches in front of me, one knee bent, eyes gleaming like a predator savoring the slow, trembling heartbeat of its prey.
A jagged bolt of lightning sears the sky again, illuminating his predatory grin for a heartbeat—then plunging us back into shadow.
His breath rolls over me in a sickly wave of whiskey, cigarettes, and rot.
“Look who’s finally awake.”
My voice is shredded. “Why are you doing this?”
He chuckles. “Come on, Belle. This was never just about you.”
He pulls my journal from his coat and waves it like a trophy.
“We already know Skylar Bishop is here. My brother’s out there right now, hunting for her.”
The blood drains from my face.
“You’re lying.”
“Private investigator found a property transfer,” he says with a shrug. “Shell company. Quiet little land deal we almost missed. Made a bet with my brother to see who’d find our sister first. Rick’s following the paper trail. I came for the bait—you. Figured it’d be quicker this way.”
Ice spreads through my chest. Misty.
They’re closing in.
Air knocks from my lungs like a piston strike to the ribs.I try to move, instinct kicking in before sense catches up, but my arms don’t budge. My wrists are bound tightly, the rope biting deep. When I pull, pain jolts up both arms.
Another groan cuts through the air—and it’s not mine. I whip my head around and nearly gag.
Blake.
Unconscious, his head lolling, a purpling bruise spreading across his temple like spilled ink.
A wave of nausea rolls up my throat.
No. No, no, no.
“Oh, don’t worry about the kid,” Mike says. “He’s just napping. You, on the other hand…” His fingers trail under my chin, forcing my face up. “…we’ve got unfinished business, sweetheart.”
Panic slams through me, cold and fast. My lungs seize, dragging in shaky breaths. My pulse races so hard it rattles my ribs.
“What do you want from me?” I rasp, tasting copper on my tongue. “Why now?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “What I’ve always wanted. If I can’t be married to you, you little cunt, then I want what I’m owed.”
He pulls my journal from the inside of his coat. My heart clenches so hard, it feels like it might tear itself in two.
“I need Skylar Bishop. I need the money she got from selling my father’s land so I can fucking buy myself a new green card.”
I go still.
Misty.
He still doesn’t know it’s Misty. He doesn’t know she’s Skylar Bishop—Huntz’s secret daughter, the one he hid from everyone.
And I can’t let him find out.
“You didn’t even know, did you?” he murmurs, flipping through the worn pages with idle amusement.
My throat locks. “Know…what?”
His grin sharpens, teeth yellow and jagged. “That you were living in Huntz’s pocket the whole time. San Francisco? That sweet little apartment you thought you found all on your own? Guess who kept the rent low. Guess who kept you on the hook, nice and close.”
My stomach twists. Hard. I shake my head, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the river’s roar. “No.”
“Oh yes, sweetheart. Huntz funded you. Helped his bastard son cozy up to the pretty little nurse who’d end up right where we wanted her. You were family business before you even stepped onto the board.”
Lease papers I never questioned. Utility bills that magically stayed manageable thanks to Eric quietly footing the difference, without knowing he was helping Mike maintain control.
The whispered warnings I brushed off. It hits me all at once—Mike manipulated everything, using my brother’s generosity to hide his own twisted plans, and I was the prize.
But I shove it down. Survival mode, now. No time for heartbreak.
“I have nothing for you,” I whisper. “You’ve taken everything already, you pussy.”
He crouches, breath sour with whiskey and rot. “You’re a terrible liar, Belle. Always were. But if you keep that mouth dirty, I might consider keeping you alive a little longer.”
If I can just get the journal…
If I can destroy it for good this time, instead of keeping it hidden like a weapon I never had the courage to use, I’ll finally strip away Mike’s leverage .
“None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t dragged me back to San Francisco,” I snap, shoving venom into every word.
He scoffs. “You were a fugitive the second you pulled that trigger on my father. Nobody’s gonna care if you disappear. You’ll be a headline. Runaway bride. Killer nurse. Lover’s quarrel gone wrong. Or maybe…” He leans in. “Maybe I should just take you back to San Francisco.”
He flicks his thumb along the journal’s edge, flipping pages like he’s reading bedtime stories. My back presses into the bark, each ridge biting against my spine.
I laugh. Sharp. Ugly. “You wish. You’ve got me tied up because you’re afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Yeah. Of a woman. Afraid I’ll beat your ass before you lay a finger on me.”
His grin stretches. “Wanna bet your sweet pussy on that?”
And there it is. The eloquence of a man who’s definitely overcompensating.
I flinch as his hand crushes between my legs. I don’t cry out. I just look at him and whisper, “Like I thought. Not a man.”
He grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet.
Wind tears through the lean-to, ripping branches. One snaps overhead, raining splinters that sting my skin. He hesitates. Just long enough.
I twist, slamming my elbow into his ribs—something cracks. He staggers, wheezing. I pivot, knee-first into his jaw, sending his head crashing into the trunk. And I square him in the jaw with fists still tied, but the rope loosens a little.
Pain shoots through my knuckles, blooming fast and hot, but I don’t stop. I don’t even breathe.
For a moment, I taste it—hope. Defiance. Rage that promises I will not go quietly.
He lunges, catching my wrist. The rope slips free and I press every advantage. I slam my forehead into the bridge of his nose.
He reels, dazed.
Good.
Let’s see how he likes playing helpless.
My fist crashes into his jaw—then again, this time to his temple.
I drive my thumbnail into the tender crease at his neck.
He yelps, boots skidding on the slick floor.
He stumbles backward, arms flailing for balance.
I grab his collar, and slam him shoulder-first into the stone edge of the fire pit.
Sparks explode into the air like startled fireflies.
He gasps, scrambles to his feet, but I’m faster. I snatch my journal off the stump. He swings wild. I duck and launch an uppercut straight into his chin.
He lifts off the ground, but ricochets off the trunk, landing hard on the muddy ground. The lantern light swings, casting twisted shadows that jitter across the tarp like ghosts.
Blood floods my mouth, sharp and coppery, but I barely notice. My heart’s beating too loudly. Too fast.
Rain whips through the roof’s torn seams, spitting onto the coals. Flames gutter. Embers hiss.
This is my shot.
He blinks, clearing his vision, just as I back up and hold the journal over the fire.
His eyes widen. Then rage.
I throw it.
The leather cover curls in the heat. Pages catch instantly, curling black, smoke and ash rising like dying butterflies. I don’t breathe. Not until he roars and lunges again, grabbing a fistful of my hair.
He yanks me forward.
His fingers clamp down on my wrist.
“Fool,” he spits. “You think that saves you?”
Before I can blink, he hooks me under the arm and slams me down. My head hits the bark-strewn floor with a crack. White light explodes behind my eyes.
When my vision clears, he’s straddling me. His knees dig into my hips, pinning me. Hands crush my forearms into the mud. I try to kick, but he catches my ankle and twists until I stop moving.
The rope hisses softly as he pulls it tight.
Cold fibers bite into my wrists as he loops it around them, cinching tighter this time.
Too tight. My fingers go numb. I twist. Kick. Thrash.
Nothing.
I go still. Chest heaving.
Mike crouches beside the dying fire pit and pulls a clear plastic sleeve from his jacket, rain streaming down the edges. Inside, protected and dry, are the journal pages he ripped out—my journal entries from San Francisco that could ruin everything.
He dusts off the ash from his jacket and holds the pages over the coals. Sparks lick at the air, hungry.