Miles pushes my hand away with the last of his strength. “Go! Now!”
My chest hurts so badly that breathing becomes difficult. My throat tightens until I can barely force the words out.
“Miles, I’m so sorry.”
I stand up and run.
I don’t look back.
Branches strike my arms, shoulders, and face as I force myself forward. My legs feel weak and unreliable, vision blurring from tears, exhaustion, and pain. My breathing comes in short, shallow bursts that burn my chest with every pull of air.
Someone whispers my name from ahead.
“Brooke.”
Sarah crouches behind a fallen tree, her face pale and pulled tight with fear.
“I think I found the gate,” she whispers. “Come on.”
I run toward her, pushing my body harder than it wants to go. My feet slip on wet leaves as the rain starts to fall, heavier now, slicking the forest floor and turning every step into a risk.
The crossbow fires with a harsh, mechanical snap.
The bolt punches through the air and buries itself in the side of Sarah’s head. Her body jerks once, like someone yanks an invisible cord, and then she drops beside the tree without a sound, her eyes still open and empty.
“Sarah,” I gasp, the word tearing out of me.
Another click cuts through the rain.
The second bolt slams into my shoulder, driving deep enough that it feels like my entire arm explodes from the inside. Pain flares hot and blinding. The force spins me sideways and throws me to the ground, the impact knocking the breath out of my chest as the forest tilts around me.
Blood spreads rapidly across the shoulder of my dress. The bolt stays embedded. The pain is constant, radiating down my arm and into my chest in blinding waves.
I lie there, struggling to breathe, rain streaking through the canopy above as my vision swims. Footsteps move closer through the brush. Leaves crunchunder slow steps as Asher walks closer. Rain darkens his clothes, plasters his hair to his forehead, but his smile stays easy.
He laughs openly now, the sound satisfied, like he has already decided how this ends. He stops a few feet away and kneels slightly, bracing the crossbow against his thigh as he reaches for another bolt.
“You did better than I thought,” he chuckles. “You almost made it.”
My shoulder throbs violently. The bolt pulls at my arm with its weight, sending sharp pain into my fingers. I writhe on the ground, trying to get my legs under me, but my body refuses to cooperate.
Asher slides the bolt into place. He watches his hands, not my face.
“You know what I like best about this part,” he says. “It’s when you stop begging and start realizing there’s no one coming.”
I drag in a breath that barely fills my lungs. My fingers dig into the mud, nails breaking as I try to push myself backward. My legs kick uselessly, slipping on wet leaves smeared with blood.
Asher laughs again and pulls the string back partway, testing the tension.
“You see,” he continues, “you don’t die right away with these. It just hurts longer.”
He takes one step closer.
That is when I move.
I slide my hand under my wrist wrap and force my fingers around the handle of the scalpel. Pain rips through my arm, but I don't stop. I pull the blade free and twist toward him.
Asher is still reloading.
