Chapter 4
The ropes give another fraction. I can feel the fibers splitting one by one against my raw wrists, each snap a whispered promise. Blood makes for good lubricant when you've got nothin’ else.
Life lessons you wish you didn't have to learn so young.
My left wrist is a mess of torn skin and exposed meat. The right isn't much better. But pain's just a message, and I've gotten real good at putting those messages on hold.
The cabin's quiet except for the wind findin’ its way through cracks in the old logs that make up the walls. Somewhere outside, a crow calls.
Silence can be a warning all its own.
I need to get out of here.
I twist my wrist again, feeling something tear. My skin or the rope, doesn't matter. Both are coming apart as I work the rope against a splintered edge on the support beam. My shoulders scream from being pulled back at this angle for hours. Feels like my joints are trying to separate.
But it's my only way out of this. So the blood and the pain doesn't matter.
The only thing that matters is escape. Because he's got Savannah up at North Ridge. She’s with him. Even Cash and Wyatt were second-guessing that move.
Don't think about it, Legion, I caution myself.
You can't help her until you're free, so thoughts don't matter. All it'll get you is anger. And anger only works in the desperate end of a fight.
This is not the desperate end of a fight. This is the precarious beginning of a war I never wanted, but will fight to the death anyway.
The thought sends fresh heat through my veins. My right hand curls into a fist, and I feel the rope give another fraction.
Almost there.
I picture Marcus touching her. Hurting her. "Cleaning" her.
"Stay strong, Savannah. I'm coming," I promise this, though no one hears it but the walls.
Another twist. The rope stretches. One more—
There's a sound. Almost musical. The sound of fibers finally surrendering.
My right hand pulls free with a wet slide, arm falling limp at my side. Dead weight. Useless for a minute until the blood starts flowin’ back. I grit my teeth against the pins and needles, knowin’ what's coming next will hurt worse.
I reach across with clumsy fingers, workin’ at the knots on my left wrist. Each touch feels like I'm digging into my own grave, but I keep going. Keep breathin’.
The left hand comes free, and I lean my head back against the beam. For thirty seconds, I allow myself to just breathe. To feel how close I came to never getting up again.
Then I'm moving.
I crawl first, then stagger to my feet. My legs are weak from sitting so long, and the cabin spins. But I find the wall and steady myself against the rough-cut logs.
Cash's boot did some damage. Each breath bubbles something wet in my chest. I spit blood onto the floor, adding to the mess I've already made.
"Not dying here," I tell the empty room. "Not today."
I make it to the door and I'm just about to pull it open, when the sound of hoof beats hits my ears.
Fuck.
I took thirty seconds too long. That break, thirty seconds, might be what stands between life and death today.
I grab an old piece of wood lying by the collapsed fireplace, slide up to the wall, lean my back against the logs, and wait.
The door swings open. Wood creaks, and when the golden hour of light floods in, I don't hesitate.
I lunge from my position, swinging the broken piece of lumber with everything I've got left. My body screams in protest, ribs grinding against each other like they're trying to puncture whatever's left of my lungs.
"Fuck—!" A voice shouts as my makeshift weapon connects. Not as solid as I wanted, but enough to send the intruder stumbling backward.
"Wait! Legion! I came to help!"
Colt Ashby. The pretty one. The one who wasn't there last night.
Doesn't matter. He's still an Ashby.
I tackle him to the ground, ignoring the wet crack in my chest. We hit hard, and I'm on top of him, blood from my wrists dripping onto his expensive shirt. His face is all wide eyes and shock beneath me.
"You fucking Ashbys," I snarl, pushing my forearm into his throat. "Think you own everything. Everyone. This is one fuck up too many."
He tries to speak, but I'm pressing too hard. Good. Let him feel what it's like not to breathe. Let him know what it feels like when someone decides your life isn't worth shit.
"It wasn't me," he chokes out when I ease up just enough. "I've been out of town. Ranch hand called—told me what happened."
I study his face, looking for the lie. His eyes are clear. Panicked, but not deceitful.
"Then what the hell are you doing here?" My voice is a low growl, barely human.
"Because this is wrong," he chokes, and there's something in his voice that sounds like the truth. "I came to help. Marcus has lost his mind. Cash and Wyatt crossed a line."
I ease back, just a fraction. Just enough that he can take a full breath.
"You're still a piece of shit," I tell him, standing slowly, feeling every broken rib shift under my skin.
"You're a dirty fucking piece of shit Ashby!
Do you have any goddamn idea what they're doing to Savannah right now?
What your own blood is letting happen to her while you've been conveniently out of town? "
Colt sits up, rubbing his throat, choking out words. "Outside. Three horses. One for each of us."
"Each of us?"
"You, me, and Savannah." He tries to get up, but pauses to cough first.
I do not feel guilty.
Once he rightens himself, he nods toward the door. "We need to go. Now. Cash and Wyatt will be coming back. There was a delivery at the ranch they needed to take care of, but it won't take long. They're probably already on their way."
None of that sounds good.
"Cash said Marcus was keeping her at North Ridge," I say, watching his reaction.
"I know where she is." Colt backs up with his hands out like he's warding me off. "They told me everything. Marcus has been keeping her sedated for three days now."
Three days.
The words hit me like another boot to the chest. Three fucking days I've been tied to that post while Savannah's been—
No. Don't think about it. Not yet.
My blood turns to ice in my veins. Cold. Focused. This isn't rage anymore. This is something deeper. "If you're lying to me," I say, my voice so calm it scares even me, "I will peel the skin from your bones. Slowly. While you watch."
Colt nods, looking me straight in the eyes. "I know. I know, Legion. Trust me, I know.”
There’s somethin’ about the way he says my name. Something… I dunno. Real in it.
“You don’t know shit,” I tell him. “You don’t know me at all, Colt Ashby. What you think you know isn’t even a fraction of the raging hell I’m capable of.”
We stare at each other for a few moments. Long enough that I notice… he and Savanah have the same eyes.
“Noted,” he says. “I’m here to help, Legion. Just like the other night, remember? I left the gate open. I let you in to the engagement party. I made it happen. We’re not enemies, Legion. We’re not.”
It’s true. He did let me in. I saw him in Terry that first week I was out. I didn’t even ask to be let in, either. He offered. Why would he do that?
“It wasn’t for me,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “It wasn’t for you. It was for Savannah. She was dyin’ without you, Legion. Dyin’. And this Marcus fuck… I can’t stand that asshole. Maybe you and I aren’t friends, but we’re not enemies, either. We both want the same thing right now. Get Savannah home safe.”
I scoff. “Home safe? This is home, Colt. She’s already home. Home isn’t safe. Not with a bunch of psychopaths runnin’ things.”
Colt’s shoulders drop. Like he was holding in this judgement and suddenly decided to let it go. He knows it’s true. Savannah isn’t safe here anymore. “Let’s just go get her.” Then he turns and walks out.
I follow him out into the dusky evening, each step a negotiation between pain and necessity. My ribs are screamin’, my head is thumpin’, and the late afternoon sun burns my eyes after days in that dark cabin. My vision swims, but I force myself to focus.
Three horses stand tethered to a nearby pine. I recognize Cassia instantly—Savannah's mare. The sight of her makes something twist in my chest that isn't just broken ribs.
Colt reaches into his saddlebag and pulls out two guns. He hands me one, and I immediately check the chamber, the weight familiar in my hand. Then I notice what he's holding.
"What the fuck is that?" I demand.
"Tranquilizer gun." He says it like it's the most reasonable thing in the world.
"A fucking tranq gun? Are you serious?" I stare at him, incredulous. "Your sister's been kidnapped by some psycho politician's son, and you brought a goddamn dart gun?"
"We're not killing anyone, for fuck's sake." Colt's voice rises. "We're rescuing someone. Marcus can be put out. He's the senator's son—we can't kill him."
I feel something shift inside me. A door opening to a room I promised myself I'd keep locked. But promises are just words, and words don't mean shit when someone you love is bleeding.
"Watch me," I say, each word dropping like stone.
"Legion—"
"No." I cut him off. "You don't get it. Three days, Colt. Three fucking days she's been up there with him. If he's touched her, I'm going to cut off his fingers one by one. Make him eat them. Then I'll open his stomach so he can see them sitting there."
Colt's face pales, but I can't stop. The images come too fast, too vivid.
"Maybe I'll start with his eyes. Scoop them out with a spoon so he feels every second.
Feed them to the crows while he listens.
" My voice doesn't even sound like mine anymore.
It's the voice from The Pit. The one that kept me alive when they tried to break me.
"Or I could just skin him. Slow. Strip by strip.
Salt each piece before starting the next. "
"Jesus Christ, Legion."
"You think that's bad?" I laugh, and it's a sound that belongs in a nightmare. "I haven't even gotten creative yet. I could—"
"Enough!" Colt snaps. "This isn't helping Savannah."