Chapter 3 Tess
TESS
The shot is muffled, but the sound of the masked man running after me is clear enough.
A scream fights to get out of my mouth, but is obstructed by my desperately dragging in air. As fast as I can. There’s no one to hear, anyway. The street is deserted. It’s the middle of the night in a residential area.
My life depends on being fast. I’m not far from my house. I just need to get there.
Everything burns and all my limbs are jelly.
I urge my body faster, my feet slapping on the pavement.
I don’t look back, but I know the masked man is behind me. I can hear his breath and the solid sound of his boots.
But I keep throwing myself forwards, because he has a gun, and the best and only defence against that on a dark night is to put more distance between us.
Fatigue sets in, because I’m not a sprinter. The pain barely registers, the panic far greater.
The thought flashes that I should hide behind a car or something. But my body keeps moving. I don’t think I could stop, even if I had enough logical brainpower to be sure that hiding was the best strategy.
Everything in me is yelling that I need to get away. Run far away from the man in a sinister, glowing mask.
My blood pounds in my ears, my chest is heaving, and the streetlights almost flash as I sprint between the pools of yellow. My legs scream with the exertion.
If I can get to my house, I can get inside, and I’ll be safe. I’m far enough ahead, and he hasn’t shot me.
The footsteps are getting closer. Loud.
It’s okay, it’s okay, I can do this. My house is there.
I shove my phone into one back pocket and grab my keys from the other as I keep running, but in doing so, I drop the pepper spray and it clatters to the ground. Blood thuds against my ears as I fumble my keys and get the right one.
Slamming into the door, I thrust the key, and it bounces off the lock because my hands are shaking.
I’m yanked away from the door. I shriek, but a hand at my throat cuts the sound off abruptly. A strong arm wraps around my waist.
He drags me backwards, and I hit a solid wall of warm muscle. Just as a cry rises from my throat, his hand shifts from my neck and clamps over my mouth.
Fear explodes in me, and I flail.
“Stop fighting, lapochka,” he growls, his voice deep and with a slight Russian accent. “Or you’ll regret it.”
Oh god.
He’s so tall that he easily lifts me off my feet. I try to kick him, and lash out, but I’m helpless. Then with ruthless efficiency, he carries me away.