Chapter 4
Erin
Holy fuck. Shit. That was a dragon.
My head swam as I tried to understand what I was seeing.
A dragon outside. Shit, shit. I had to escape this chair.
Adrenaline surged as I rocked back and forth, harder and harder, faster and faster.
The chair's legs creaked in protest before finally collapsing beneath me with a splintering crack.
The ropes around me loosened, and I clawed at them frantically until my wrists were free.
A scream threatened to rise in my throat, but I bit it back.
It was quiet outside. Hopefully, the dragon had left.
If it was gone, I could escape. If I screamed, I was fucked.
Royally.
As slowly as I could, I pushed open the cabin door, freezing when it creaked. I crept through the smallest opening in the door I could and scanned my surroundings.
Trees were uprooted, bushes torn asunder, and deep gouges marred the earth as if clawed by an unseen leviathan. In the midst of this chaos was my abductor, reduced to little more than a crimson smear on the landscape. I didn't even see his head and his body…
"Shit." My stomach churned, bile rising like a bitter tide. This wasn't just gruesome, it was otherworldly. How could any human wreak such havoc? His body was just a pile of bloody pulp. The dirt road around him, the yard in front of the cabin, was gouged, cratered like a bomb had gone off.
A bomb. That had to be it. It had been a bomb, not a dragon. That fucker had drugged me at some point. I felt good now, but likely it was a short-lasting drug. In my drug-addled mind, the bomb going off had been a dragon saving me and ripping my captor to pieces.
A stiff wind whipped through the shredded foliage, carrying with it the coppery scent of blood. It was as if the very air mourned the violence wrought upon this once-serene clearing.
I forced myself to move. I resisted the compulsion to acknowledge what lay in every splatter and shard around me. I'd escaped the chair and the cabin, but not the nightmare.
Then the truth hit me hard—I was alone now, truly alone. No family to turn to, no Nathan next door to offer solace or protection. The weight of my isolation bore down on me, heavier than the dense forest air.
But I couldn't collapse under it. I had to be strong. Strong like I was when I fled Chicago, when I survived the mob's relentless pursuit. When I carved out a new existence here in Stock Creek among strangers who never fully accepted me. If I could do all that, I could survive this too.
Taking one last lingering look at the carnage, my gaze fixed on a metallic glint amidst the visceral wreckage.
Holy shit. The asshole's keys. They were in a pile of blood and something pulpy.
Gross. Nausea roiled in my stomach. As fast as I could, I darted back into the cabin and looked around.
The one-room building had little inside, but I was in luck.
With trembling hands, I reached for a faded checkered towel that hung innocently over the rusted-out old sink.
Now, it would serve as a barrier between my skin and the remnants of the man who'd wanted me worse than dead.
I wrapped the cloth around the keys with meticulous care, ensuring not a single drop of crimson stained my fingers.
Pushing down the bile that threatened to rise, I forced my legs to carry me to his car, miraculously untouched by the chaos.
My hands still shook like crazy as I pressed the button through the fabric, guessing which one would work. The first button I hit ended up being the alarm. "Fuck."
The horn went nuts. Damn it. I didn't want the noise, not after what had just happened.
It finally went off, and I tried another button.
The chirp of the car unlocking sounded like the best concert I'd ever heard.
I slid behind the wheel and wiped off the keys as best as I could.
Then I slid the car key into the ignition.
The engine hummed to life, and I took a deep breath.
The drive back to Stock Creek was a blur of dark forest and gravel roads. I wasn't even sure where I was and went on pure instinct. After what felt like hours, I finally made it to a road I recognized. My grip on the steering wheel was white knuckled.
Dragons. The word skated across my mind, chased by images of fire and scales, but I shoved it aside.
"Drugged," I said. The lie was more comforting than the impossibility of a real-life dragon. "He had a bomb. That's all this is." Even as I spoke, doubt curled around my thoughts, insidious as smoke from an unseen flame. Dragon's flame. Ha. I giggled wildly, way out of control.
Great. Now I was really losing my mind.
My chest tightened, heart hammering against my ribs at the thought of what awaited me at home. A go-bag, packed long ago with my important papers like my birth certificate and passport. A stash of cash, a couple of changes of clothes. Pictures of my parents. Things I couldn’t live without.
All I needed was that bag, switch to my car, and then I could keep running, keep hiding.
Another laugh bubbled up from my throat, the sound hollow and foreign. Was this what losing my mind felt like?
This relentless carousel of terror and disbelief, spinning until the world blurred into a maelstrom of 'what-ifs'?
I had to get a grip. I wasn't some damsel. I was a survivor. Survivors didn't lose it over fairytales and hallucinations.
As the inn came into view, my chest tightened. Its familiar front was a cruel parody of safety. A sanctuary that had been anything but. I parked the car with jerky movements and dashed inside, my resolve brittle but unbroken.
I pushed open the inn's front door, the old wood creaking a protest that matched the tight knot of fear in my belly.
The clean scent of fresh laundry and the flowers from my garden on the coffee table filled my nostrils. A scent that should've spelled relief, home. Instead, it was tainted with danger.
I rushed through the living room toward the kitchen and stopped dead. No. In the middle of my kitchen stood a silhouette that had haunted my nightmares for three long, weary years.
Damn it all. I should've driven around back to check the parking lot behind the inn.
"Hello Erin," the man cooed, his voice oily as he stepped into the light. It was like being thrust back in time. The same cold eyes, the same sinister smile that had ordered death over petty cash.
"Vito." The name itself left a bitter tang in my mouth. My hands trembled, itching for the go-bag that lay just beyond reach beside the dryer. I’d hoped to get the hell out of here before "The Boss," my captor had sneered about, arrived. The same man who’d obliterated my life the night I saw him oversee a murder, the reason I'd been living a half-life ever since.
Instantly, I was yanked back to that night.
Running out of the freezer at the sharp retort of gunshot.
The store clerk, a sweet man who always remembered my name, crumpling behind the counter, blood pooling underneath him.
My breath hitched, a scream caught somewhere deep in my throat, eyes wide and fixed on the young guy holding the gun.
Until a movement from the shadows near the door caught my attention.
Another face, older, colder, watching, giving a silent, chilling nod of approval.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I fled the store.
My knowledge of the familiar neighborhood a chaotic advantage as I weaved through those suffocating alleys, the stench of overflowing dumpsters and stagnant water burning my nose until I arrived at the only safe place I could think of. My apartment.
I burst through the door, fumbling with the lock, my hands slick with sweat, but a shadow was already at my heels.
He lunged, a rough hand clapping over my mouth, but adrenaline was my guide.
I twisted, my knee finding purchase, and scrambled back, my hand flying to the small, cold weight tucked beneath my mattress.
The gun. I aimed, barely registering his shocked face as I pulled the trigger.
The shot was deafening in the confined space. He crumpled.
Silence, broken only by the frantic thumping of my heart. My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the weapon as I stared at the body of the young man I’d seen at the store. Only now it was my barrel smoking, the metallic scent of gunpowder thick in the air.
Somehow, I’d called 911, my voice a strained whisper as I told the dispatcher what had happened.
It felt like an eternity, but within minutes, the harsh glare of flashing blue lights filled my window, the urgent blare of their sirens cutting through the silence.
The officers appeared, their serious expressions reflecting the gravity of the scene.
I was soon in the back of a squad car, heading to the station.
The station was sterile, harsh, but it felt like air. After I choked out my statement, the detective spread out photos. The older man’s image screamed out from the lineup, and I pointed, my hand trembling.
"That’s Vito," the detective had said, his voice a low, grim rumble. "One of the higher-ups. Looks like you walked right into a mob initiation, Erin." My entire world didn’t just tilt. It shattered.
Witness protection. New name, new city, a constant police shadow. But like a persistent, cancerous growth, Vito’s men found me. The safe house, meant to be a refuge, became a trap. The officer tasked with my protection had been a living shield between me and the inevitable.
Gunfire, shouts, his desperate push, "Go, Erin! Run!" The last thing I saw was his face, twisted in effort and pain, before the darkness swallowed him whole. I ran. Vito’s cold, steely gaze, like chips of glacial ice, burned behind my eyelids, superimposed on everything. I ran until my lungs felt like they’d tear open, until the memory of the officer’s sacrifice fueled every desperate, ragged stride.
I thought I’d escaped, thought I’d built a life here in Stock Creek where I was finally invisible.
Now, it seemed, it had all been for nothing. Vito had found me anyway.
"Miss me?" Vito chuckled darkly, his voice, a low, guttural rumble, sliced through the memory, dragging me back to the suffocating present. His figure, predatory and menacing, moved closer, the gun glinting dully in the dimly lit room, cold and heavy in his grip.
His finger caressed the trigger, a lover's touch that promised nothing but destruction.
I couldn't move, couldn't breathe—frozen by the malignant intent in his gaze. Then, disorder erupted. The back door burst open with such force it rebounded off the wall. Vito spun, confusion etching his features for a split second before a blur of motion slammed his body.
The gunshot echoed, a thunderclap in the confined space. I squealed, instinct driving me to the floor with my arms thrown over my head as if I could ward off death itself. The metallic taste of fear flooded my mouth.
"Get down." The stranger's command was superfluous. I was already sprawled on the ground, heart racing a marathon.
Risking a glance, I saw Vito's crumpled form, the stranger standing over him, broad-shouldered and emanating a palpable ferocity. I scrambled up, inching toward where the gun skittered across the floor. With a swift kick, I sent it clattering under a cabinet, far from Vito's lifeless fingers.
"Is he...?" I couldn't finish the question. My gaze locked on the stranger's face.
"Don't worry, he can't shoot it. He's dead.
" The voice was a rich baritone, soothing yet laced with power.
I staggered back, my pulse erratic. That voice—it resonated with an elemental timbre I'd heard once before, in what I'd convinced myself was a hallucination.
It belonged to the dragon of my drug-induced delirium—or so I had told myself.
Yet here he was, flesh and blood, standing before me.