EMMA
I don’t make it far.
I tell myself I’m walking with purpose—that every step away from Gabriel is a victory, a reclamation of my autonomy—but the truth is uglier. My legs tremble. My head spins. The bond doesn’t loosen just because I demand it to.
Distance doesn’t mute it.
It sharpens it.
Every step feels like I’m tearing something out of my chest inch by inch, and the forest seems to know it. Branches snag my coat. Roots rise like traps beneath the snow. The wind howls in low, hollow moans that scrape against my nerves.
I shouldn’t have come this far alone.
That thought lands too late.
The smell hits me first.
Oil. Leather. Cigarette smoke.
My heart stutters.
No.
I spin around slowly, dread pooling in my gut.
The road cuts through the trees ahead—thin, half-buried in snow
