Chapter 3 Salem #2
“You’re it?” I figured when I got rescued there’d be a team of ex-military security professionals. Not a guy with a mohawk. Yet, then again… I never thought I’d get rescued. Like… who am I? Ya know? Why am I being rescued and not any of the other women in this hellhole?
“Yeah, we’re it. We have others helping, but not here.”
I nod. Can’t argue with that.
We reach the loading dock. There’s two guards pacing. Watching. One looks up, sees us, and goes for his gun.
Ozzy moves. He lifts the gun in his hand and shoots. A dart hits the guard and he goes down with a deafening thud.
The second guard rushes forward, and I don’t think.
I grab the nearest object—which is a heavy metal clipboard on a hook—rip it free, and swing.
The edge connects with the guard’s shoulder.
He yelps. I swing again. This time I hit him in the jaw.
His head snaps sideways and he goes down like a dropped bag of cement. I blink, breathing hard.
Ozzy stares at me. For a terrifying second, I wonder if I just ruined the plan and he’s going to be like, ma’am, please stop the assaulting.
Instead, his gaze drags over me, slow, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
Then his mouth curves. Not soft. Sharp. Proud.
Dangerous. “Remind me never to make you mad,” he murmurs.
I lift the clipboard. “Too late. I’m already mad.”
He takes a step closer and I can feel him—heat, adrenaline, the faint scent of clean soap and something metallic. His eyes flick to my lips, briefly. Then to the clipboard in my grip. Then back to my face. “You okay?” he asks again.
I nod, swallowing. My hands are shaking, but my voice comes out steady. “Yeah.”
He looks at me for a beat too long. Like he wants to touch my face. Like he wants to pull me against him. Like he wants to do something that is definitely not appropriate in a loading dock.
“Showtime,” Arrow says—low, amused.
Ozzy taps his comm. “We’re on the dock.”
The stairwell door opens and more guards spill out, shouting. Ozzy’s hand is on my back instantly, guiding me toward the open dock door. Arrow takes off running, and we follow quickly behind.
We’re running in the empty lot toward a black SUV. Arrow hits the keyfob and the vehicle's lights blink red. He hops behind the wheel and Ozzy and I rush to the other side, hopping into the back seat.
The second we’re in, Arrow guns it. The SUV lurches forward. I twist, peering through the back window. Guards pour out of the dock, yelling, one raising a gun— and then their world abruptly explodes into confusion as a second vehicle cuts across the lot, blocking them.
I catch the flash of headlights. A horn. Someone shouting. The guards scatter.
Ozzy leans closer, voice low near my ear. “Render.”
“Your friend?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “He’s dramatic.”
“I like him already.”
Ozzy makes a sound like a laugh, but his eyes hold no humor. Instead he almost appears jealous.
Arrow’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror. “Seatbelt.”
I blink. “What?”
Ozzy reaches over, grabs the belt, and clicks it across my chest. It’s a small thing. A normal thing. And it makes my throat tighten, because it’s the first normal, protective gesture anyone has given me in weeks.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
Ozzy looks at me like he knows I’m lying. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he says softly, “You did good back there.”
I swallow. “Thanks,” I whisper.
Arrow’s voice cuts in, dry. “Did you two meet two minutes ago or twelve years ago?”
Ozzy scoffs. “Don’t start.”
Arrow glances at him. “You started. With your hair.”
Ozzy’s hand flies up to his mohawk like it’s personally offended. “My hair did nothing.”
“It’s shouting,” Arrow says flatly.
I choke on a laugh.
Ozzy looks at me. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, smiling despite myself. “It’s just… I didn’t know ‘rescue’ came with commentary.”
Arrow’s mouth tilts slightly. “Everything comes with commentary.”
Ozzy leans back, elbow on the seat, eyes on me again. “You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
I glance down at my hands. They are. Badly. Now that I’m not running, my body is catching up. Adrenaline leaving. Reality returning like a wave. I force my fingers to uncurl. “I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Ozzy’s gaze doesn’t move. “Salem,” he says, and my name on his mouth feels strange. Personal. “You don’t have to be fine. You just have to be here.”
My chest aches. I blink fast and look out the window, focusing on the blur of city lights. “Where are we going?” I ask, because questions are safer than feelings.
“Headquarters,” Arrow says. “We’re going to end this.”
My stomach twists. End this. That means more than me escaping. It means the people who did this don’t get to keep doing it. It means they don’t get to move on to the next girl. I swallow, heat sparking behind my eyes. “Good,” I whisper.
Ozzy’s hand shifts on the seat, close to mine.
He’s not touching me, but almost. He’s so close I can feel the heat from his hand radiating toward me.
My fingers inch toward his. I let my pinky brush his.
His breath catches like he felt it. And then he turns his head slightly, voice low, teasing, like he’s giving me something lighter to hold.
“So,” he murmurs. “When we’re not being chased by monsters… what do you do for fun?”
I blink at him. My brain stutters. Fun? What is fun? Is it still legal?
“I—” I start, then realize I don’t actually know what my life is outside survival anymore. So I go with honesty. “I like breaking rules,” I say.
Ozzy’s grin flashes. “Same.”
“And I like… making men regret underestimating me.”
Arrow mutters, “You’re going to fit in.”
Ozzy leans closer, eyes bright. “And what about mohawks?” he asks, clearly too pleased with himself. “Are those part of your rule-breaking lifestyle?”
I snort. “They’re certainly… a choice.”
“A good choice,” he corrects.
“A loud choice,” Arrow adds.
I glance at Ozzy’s hair again and my stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with fear. “Fine,” I whisper. “It’s a good choice.”
Ozzy’s smile turns softer for a second, like he’s surprised by how much that means. Then his gaze sharpens again, returning to the mission. “Sleep when you can,” he says quietly. “We’re not done.”
I nod, swallowing. “I know,” I whisper.
But for the first time in weeks, the words don’t feel like a sentence. They feel like a plan. And I’m sitting beside a man with a mohawk and a dangerous smile who just ripped me out of hell like he’d been born to do it. So yeah. Maybe I’m not done. Maybe I’m just getting started.