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I whirl around, my legs skidding out from under me where I was crouched on the grassy bank. I throw out an arm to stop myself from tumbling into the river. My injured fingers dig into the ground and instantly begin to bleed again, but it hardly matters. My breath is a harsh rasp in the early evening gloom.
At first I can’t tell who it is, just a man, his face masked in twilight. But he steps forward and I see his blue eyes, eyes I would know anywhere.
“Hey there, pretty girl,” Mark Laird says. And then he smiles.
Chapter Two
For an endless moment there is only silence as we stare at each other. Instinct tells me not to let him know how scared I am, how even now my stomach has twisted itself into a hard knot of fear, the hair on the back of my neck quivering in anticipation. I haven’t seen him since the day I followed Bishop to the fence after Mark was put out, but I realize now that some part of me has been anticipating this moment all along.
“Hi, Mark,” I hear myself say, my voice surprisingly normal.
He cocks his head at me, the smile fading from his cherub cheeks. Even now, after all I know about him, he still looks deceptively innocent with his round face and sparkling blue eyes. He takes a step closer and I start to push myself up. I have at least a few inches on him; I’d rather be towering over him instead of prone below him. But before I can stand, he lifts his foot and brings it down on my ankle. Not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough that the threat of damage hangs between us like an ugly promise.
“You shouldn’t get up,” he tells me. “You look like you’ve been through a lot.” Slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, he squats down beside me, replacing his foot with one hand chained loosely around my ankle.
“I’m fine,” I say. And now my voice has a slight quiver. I don’t miss the way Mark’s eyes go dark and hungry at the sound. My gut feeling was right; he likes gorging himself on other people’s fear. I tell myself not to think of the nine-year-old girl he hurt, how her cries were probably music to his sick, perverted ears. “Please let go.” I give my leg an experimental twist and his hand clamps down, fingers gouging into my Achilles tendon.
“What happened to you?” he asks, as if I haven’t spoken. “They put you out?”
I nod. He stares at me and belts out a laugh, making me flinch. “What for?”
I hesitate, weighing my options, trying to decide what to tell him. “Because I tried to kill the president’s son,” I say finally.
Mark shakes his head. “You’re lying. I saw the way you looked at him.” He grins at my shocked eyes. “You thought I didn’t see you that day? When he came to give me his pathetic charity?” His index finger sneaks under the cuff of my jeans, slithering against my skin, and my leg jerks like I’ve been shocked. But there’s nowhere for me to go. He’s got me trapped. “I know who you are,” he says. “And I know who he is.”
“I’m not anyone anymore,” I tell him, a painful truth that hurts me to speak aloud. “I’m out here alone, just like you.” Comparing myself to him on any level makes me want to scream, but I want to keep him talking. If he’s talking, he’s not trying to do anything else. “Have you met other people?” I ask. “Is there somewhere safe for people who’ve been put out?” Maybe if he sees us as allies, part of a pack, he won’t be able to hurt me.
But Mark doesn’t care about what I have to say. He reaches forward with his free hand and caresses my cheek. I twist my head away from him, my breath coming so fast it burns on the inhale. “Don’t touch me,” I tell him.
“You’ve got blood on your cheek,” he says and the gentle tone of his voice makes my fists clench, nails biting into my palms. It’s so much worse than a yell. He acts as if I’m okay with his hands on my body. As if I’ve given him permission. “Your poor face.” His fingers slide over my lips and I slap his hand away.
“I said, don’t touch me.”
He grabs the back of my neck and squeezes, his thumb pushing against the tender spot where the guards hit me. I cry out, pulling at his arm with both hands, as a bright, electric bolt of pain shoots through my head, leaving a trail of white stars in its wake.
“Don’t you ever, ever tell me what to do,” he says, lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. “You stupid bitch.”
He’s done pretending, done with even the slightest pretense that this a friendly encounter. Terror surges through me, so fast and vicious I think my heart might burst. My earlier exhaustion vanishes in an instant, every single cell in my body suddenly wide awake and poised for battle.
Mark shoves me backward, catching both my wrists in his hands, and launches himself on top of me. I kick my legs upward and buck wildly, desperate to throw him off. Standing, I might have had an advantage with my height, but on the ground his heavier weight puts the balance in his corner. If he gets me pinned, it’s all over.
He grunts when my knee connects with his side, his breath hot and fetid in my face. I don’t bother screaming. I can’t spare the air, and there’s no one to help me anyway. The only sound is our ragged breathing, harsh exhales as hard bone meets soft flesh. He punches me in the face and sparks explode in my head; my eye feels like it’s bursting from the socket. I wrench one hand free and my nails make contact with the side of his face, leaving behind three bloody furrows in his skin. His scream of pain gives me a burst of strength and I manage to flip onto my side, belly-crawl away from him, using my elbows like pistons to pull myself forward.
But I only get a few feet before he’s back on me, his hands gripping my hips. He straddles me, grinds my face into the ground. Dirt fills my mouth and nose, making me gag, snot and saliva smearing across my face as I fight to breathe. Mark slams my face into the ground and I feel my lip split. He lets go of my head and grabs my right arm, wrenching it up behind my back, my hand pushed almost to my neck.
“That was fun,” he pants from above me. “I don’t mind a good fight. But now we’re going to do things my way.” He twists my injured fingers with his free hand and I scream. “What happened here?” he asks, voice conversational, as if we’re discussing the weather.
I don’t bother answering and he lets go of my fingers, but increases the pressure on my arm. My shoulder throbs in time with my heart; I can’t move without making the pain unbearable. “Let go,” I wheeze. “Let go and I’ll stop fighting.”
“Yeah?” he says, and I can hear the laughter in his voice. “You’re a shitty liar. But I tell you what, I’m such a nice guy, I will let go.”
“What—” Before I can ask what he means, he wrenches my arm up in one quick jerk, my shoulder slipping from its socket in a white-hot flash of agony. I shriek, a long, high-pitched wail that reaches up into the evening sky and brings darkness rushing toward me like the wings of a raven.
My breath is whistling out of me, and Mark gives a satisfied hum of approval. Proud of his work. I am still terrified, and seriously injured now, too. But underneath the fear and pain there is an unexpected, but not unwelcome, pit of boiling, surging anger. Anger at Mark, my father, Callie, President Lattimer, my mother. Even Bishop. It stirs inside me, a seething red mass of pure willfulness. And that determined part of me knows that if I give in to the darkness, I will never wake up again. Mark Laird will do what he wants with me. Leave me dead and violated along this riverbank. After everything I’ve gone through, I refuse to let him be the one to end my life.
I bite down hard on my tongue just as the blackness descends, flying in along the edges of my vision. Bite so hard I taste blood, salty and slick against my teeth. The blackness recedes, but not enough. I bite again, in the same spot, and the sharp pain forces me to focus, sweeps the darkness away.
Mark is moving off me, confident he has me at his mercy. My left hand is outstretched, resting in the grass, and I move it carefully sideways, close my fingers over a rock and grip it tight.
