mark pov
I woke up with a bag over my head.
My head throbbed, my shoulder was on fire, and I was crammed into what felt like the floor of a moving van. Hands zip-tied behind my back, ankles tied too. My mouth tasted like blood and regret. Mostly regret.
I tried to move, but one of Alice’s dogs kicked me in the ribs. Not hard enough to break anything—but hard enough to remind me I wasn’t going anywhere.
“Try it again and I’ll knock you out again,” the guy grunted.
I didn’t say anything. I just laid there, letting the pain sink in. The van rocked side to side. Judging by the bumps and how long we’d been driving, we were either headed into the woods or out of the city. I didn’t know which scared me more.
The bag came off maybe ten minutes later.
I blinked against the light. Alice sat a
