Page 43 of His Stolen Bride

ALINA

The headlights close fast, and the driver curses and grips the wheel tighter. “Stay down!”

Two black SUVs gain on us, no hesitation in their movement. Their speed isn’t random. They know exactly who they’re chasing. “How many?” I ask.

“Two, maybe three,” he replies in a thin voice, checking the mirror. “We can’t outrun them.”

He’s right. The road is narrow, surrounded by trees. I keep my head low as the first gunshot cracks the air. The back window shatters. The driver swerves. “Who told them?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. His knuckles are white.

Another round hits the rear tire. The car jerks.

He shouts, “Hold on!”

We skid, turn sideways, slam through the edge of the road, and crash nose-first into a ditch. My shoulder hits metal. The airbag bursts. My ears ring. By the time I push the door open, the driver’s gone. I see his shape vanish into the woods. I understand immediately—he’s not running from them. He’s running from me.

Lira was right—he's her guy.

The problem is that Lira was never mine.

The betrayal hits me squarely in the chest and I inhale a gust of air as I place a hand on my stomach and murmur. “You’re safe. You’re safe, I got you.” She was the only friend I’d had in forever. And just like the other people in my life, she’d set me up for ruin. Get me out, make it look like help, and hand me to whoever wanted me dead. That way, she’d walk away untouched.

Another gunshot brings me back to the present. I crawl out and run, forcing my legs to move even though they feel heavy. My lungs burn, but I push through the pain. Branches tear at my sleeves. The ground is soft and wet. Every step sinks. The forest feels endless, but staying in one place means dying.

I keep moving.

Behind me, engines stop. Doors slam. Voices carry—men spreading out, searching. They’ll sweep the area in minutes.

I crouch low and force myself forward, keeping to uneven ground. My breathing’s too loud. I clamp a hand over my mouth and keep going.

There’s a fence ahead. I find a section where the wires are loose and slip through. My jacket tears, but I don’t stop. On the other side is a small field. At the far edge, I see a faint light—probably a farmhouse.

I head for it.

It takes longer than I think. When I reach it, dawn has started to gray the sky. There’s no time to rest. I circle the house until I find a back porch with laundry hanging on a line. I grab what I can—a flannel shirt, an old pair of jeans, a jacket. They smell like detergent and cold air.

Inside the barn, I change quickly, tossing my old clothes into a pile of straw. I burn them with a match I find near the workbench, waiting until nothing but dark ash remains.

The fake ID goes into the fire next. Then the papers with my new name. All of it burns.

When it’s done, I take a breath and pull the jacket tight. I can’t stay.

The road that runs past the farm is empty for a while. Eventually, an old bus appears, heading east. I wave it down and climb aboard, handing over a few crumpled bills from the pocket of the jacket. The driver doesn’t ask questions.

I sit in the back, hood up, eyes down. My reflection in the window doesn’t look like anyone worth following. The bus smells like fuel and sweat, and the people inside look tired. That’s good. Tired people don’t pay attention.

Every turn of the wheels feels like distance earned. Every mile puts another barrier between me and Mikhail’s world.

But it doesn’t feel like freedom yet.

When we stop at a station, I step off and head for the restroom. I check the stalls, the corners, the doors. No tails. I wash my face, fix my hair as best I can, and keep moving.

By the time I reach the next terminal, I’ve traded buses twice. Each time, I choose one going farther from anything familiar. I don’t look at the destination signs. I just move.

The nausea comes back halfway through the second ride. I grip the seat in front of me and breathe until it passes. I tell myself it’s temporary. I tell myself I’ll find a doctor later.

When I step off again, I’m in a small town that doesn’t look like it belongs to anyone. Faded signs, empty stores, stray dogs. Perfect.