The rain didn’t stop.
It hammered down like punishment from the sky, cold and merciless.
Amelia lay in the mud, her body broken open, lungs wheezing like rusted metal.
She wasn’t safe.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But she was alive.
Barely.
⸻
Her ribs felt cracked.
Her ankle—twisted and swelling fast.
Her throat, raw and bruised from Lucian’s grip, made every breath a fresh agony.
But she moved anyway.
Because lying still meant dying.
⸻
Her fingers dug into the wet earth as she dragged herself forward, inch by inch.
The river had spat her out miles from the cabin.
She didn’t know where.
But the woods were endless.
And cold.
And she was alone now.
⸻
The knife—her only weapon—was still clenched in her fist.
She couldn’t let it go.
Not even to rest.
Because somewhere, out
