Chapter Thirty – Two – Through Fire
1516 Words
The hall was colder than the room she escaped. Dim, barely lit, and silent — a silence that screamed of danger.
Avery pressed her back against the wall, steadying her breath.
You’ve made it this far. Keep moving.
She didn’t know how long she had before someone realized she was gone. The place felt industrial — old, maybe a warehouse or forgotten storage bunker. Pipes lined the ceiling. One flickering bulb buzzed overhead.
Every step sent pain shooting up her ankle, but she pushed through.
She moved fast but cautious, peering into every open doorway she passed — empty storage rooms, supply closets, an old furnace room. No windows. Just one heavy door at the end of the corridor that might be an exit.
She gripped her makeshift weapon tighter — the broken chair leg still in her hand, sticky with dried blood.
She reached the door and froze, pressing her ear against the cold metal.
Voices.
Two men. Laughing. Talking about a deal.
“Club’s gonna come for her. That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“Let ‘em. President’s got a weakness. We take the girl, we control the game.”
Her grip tightened so hard the wood creaked beneath her fingers.
She wasn’t a weakness. She was a reckoning.
She couldn’t risk that door. Not with two men on the other side. So she backtracked, scanning the walls until her eyes locked on a narrow flight of stairs.
No guards. No cameras she could see.
She bolted for it.
Up one level. Then another. She followed the air — cool and slightly sweet, the scent of outside. Of escape.
Finally, she saw it: a window. Small, dirty, cracked — but open.
Avery threw her weight against the rusted frame. It didn’t budge.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Come on.”
She backed up and kicked — once, twice — on the third try, it shattered open with a metallic groan.
Wind hit her skin like a slap. The sun was still out. That meant Colt might not even know yet—
She crawled halfway through—
A voice shouted behind her.
“SHE’S OUT!”
Boots thundered against the floor.
Avery didn’t wait. She pulled herself through the narrow opening, the jagged glass slicing her arm open in the process — but she didn’t stop.
She dropped from the second story.
Hit the ground hard.
Rolled.
And ran.
Ran until the world blurred.
Until the pain in her body screamed louder than her fear.
Until the only thing in her mind was Colt’s voice, somewhere far away, telling her: You survive this, baby. You get back to me.
The trees blurred past her, branches tearing at her arms, her hair catching on wild bramble. Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs, fire lacing every inhale. Her legs buckled more than once, but she didn’t fall.
Keep moving.
That’s all her mind screamed.
Blood dripped from her arm — steady, dark, trailing through the dirt behind her.
She didn’t know how far she ran. It could’ve been five minutes. Or fifteen. The world had narrowed to two things:
Run. Hide.
Finally, her body gave her no choice.
She collapsed behind a thicket of brush and ferns, half-concealed by a fallen log, her chest heaving, muscles shaking violently from exertion and shock.
She curled into herself.
Not out of fear — but to protect what little strength she had left.
If they found her, they’d have to drag her out kicking and screaming.
She reached down and snapped a small, sharp stick into her hand. Her fingers were slick with blood, but she tightened her grip.
A weapon. A last defense.
Come at me. Try.
The pain in her ankle throbbed. Her vision spun. Her skin was clammy now, the adrenaline fading into something colder.
She blinked up at the slivers of sunlight breaking through the trees, listening for footsteps.
A distant shout. Male. Then silence.
They hadn’t found her yet.
She pressed her back against the log, forced herself to breathe slow and quiet. Her entire body trembled — from blood loss, exhaustion, rage.
She wanted Colt.
But not to save her.
To see her like this. Bruised. Cut. Hiding. Holding a broken stick like a knife.
To see what they did — and burn the world for it.
She didn’t pray often, but now, eyes pressed tight, she whispered one thing into the dirt:
“Please… let him find me first.”
Woods – Moments After Collapse
Avery pressed her face into the crook of her arm, the sharp ache in her ribs pulsing harder with each breath. The stick in her hand was steady, gripped so tight her knuckles had gone white. If they found her, she'd stab until her last breath.
But her body… her body was giving out.
The adrenaline had abandoned her.
The gash on her arm was bleeding steadily. Her ankle throbbed like it was fractured, if not worse. Her skin felt cold now — the kind of cold that settled into the bones.
"Come on," she whispered. "Not yet. Not like this."
The wind whispered through the trees, brushing hair from her face like fingers too soft to be real. The sky was beginning to darken — she didn’t know if it was late afternoon or just the fog creeping in.
A sob tried to push through her chest, but she swallowed it down.
She was not crying.
Not unless it was from rage.
But she felt it — the panic that came with waiting too long. With not knowing if the people looking for her were his… or theirs.
And all she wanted — all she needed — was Colt.
That steady voice. That brutal command. That look in his eyes when he saw her and nothing else.
“Find me,” she whispered into the damp moss. “Please, Colt… find me.”
She felt her heartbeat slow. Her limbs went heavier. A flicker of fear sparked in her chest again.
Was this what dying felt like?
She shook her head. No. She didn’t get to die. Not now.
Not before she told him everything.
Not before she got to live with him.
And then — faint.
A rumble.
The kind of sound she knew deep in her bones. A sound that lived in the back of her memory since she was a girl growing up outside the clubhouse.
Motorcycles.
More than one.
Her breath hitched.
Was it them?
Or was it him?
She gathered every last shred of strength she had and pushed her bleeding hand out past the log, into the open.
If it was the wrong side, they’d kill her.
If it was the right side—
She’d go home.
Woods – Moments Later
The roar of engines grew louder.
She stayed still, half-hidden behind the log, her bloody arm stretched into the clearing. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest.
Please. Please. Let it be him.
Boots hit the dirt — fast. Heavy.
She held her breath.
And then—
A man stepped into her view.
Not Colt.
Not even close.
Taller. Gaunt face. Greasy hair pulled back. Eyes like cold knives.
He sneered when he saw her.
“There you are.”
Everything in her body screamed at once. She scrambled backward, trying to push herself against the earth, away from him, her legs giving out as she reached for the stick she dropped.
“Stay back!” she rasped, blood in her mouth, in her teeth. “I’ll kill you.”
He laughed. Laughed.
“You? Sweetheart, you’re barely breathing.”
He bent to grab her.
She swung — the stick landed hard against his arm, but it didn’t stop him. He knocked it away and yanked her up by the shoulders, dragging her back through the brush like she weighed nothing.
She screamed. It tore out of her throat raw and hoarse.
Not out of fear — out of rage.
She clawed at his face, kicked out with her good leg, fought like a wild animal, even as her vision blurred and her muscles betrayed her.
“LET ME GO!” she sobbed.
“You should’ve stayed put,” he growled. “But don’t worry. The president’ll come now. You’ll bring him to his knees.”
No. No, no.
This wasn’t how it ended.
This wasn’t how she’d be used.
Tears welled up, blinding her, but she didn’t stop fighting. Her nails scratched his face, blood running down his cheek now too.
Still, he kept dragging her toward the bikes.
And in that moment — her body limp, her fight slipping away — her mind whispered the only thing she hadn’t said out loud yet:
“I love you, Colt Mercer.”
She just wanted more time.
Time to say it.
Time to live it.
Time to finally feel what it meant to be his without war standing in the way.
She didn’t care if she died.
But not like this.
Not without him knowing.
- Writer
