Help. Under the bleachers. Bobola Stadium. Drugged. Can’t fight.
My hands tremble.
Will the text go through?
I don’t know.I don’t know.
Seconds later, a reply bubble pops up. Relief surges through my veins.
Seamus
Fucking hell
stay there.
I’m on my way.
Whatever you do DO NOT LEAVE
STALL
How? How do I stall a man who’s trying to hurt me?
He comes back, and I force myself to smile. My voice wobbles, and my thoughts are scrambled. “What did you tell them?”
“I said we needed a minute alone,” he says.
I force a giggle. “All you need is a minute?”
My knees buckle.
I collapse like my legs have given out. I gag. And then I vomit, right there.
On the cement.
“Oh, gross,” he groans, backing up.
“It’s your fault,” I spit, wiping my mouth, retching again for effect. “You put something in my drink. What’d you think was gonna happen? I’d fall in love with you?”
He snarls and then shoves me. I fall, cracking my head against the underside of the bleachers.
Blood trickles into my eye.
My god.
This isexactlywhat Rafail warned me about, exactly what I am supposed to avoid.
And yet—here I am.
Under the bleachers. With children.
And I’m done pretending. I’m only twenty, butIam not a child.
I was born into war, raised by criminals, and lived through the brutal assassination of my own parents. I don’t belong in this fake-normal world.
I fumble for the blade in my boot, but I don’t trust myself to use it. He’s too big. Too fast.
If I slice him and he catches me, the price will be too high.
