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Her right foot connected with hard flesh, followed by a groan and then a long, brittle silence.
“Fucking bitch,” he roared.
He grabbed both her legs and used his body to hold her down while his fingers fumbled to restrain her.
Feeling a sharp prick in her thigh, her strength disappeared and the fight slowly seeped out of her limbs.
“I’m going to make you pay for breaking my nose,” he growled into her ear, “you’ll hurt so badly you will pray for death.”
She began to shake as the fearful images built in her mind.
“That’s right, Saige”—he fastened something around her neck—“you can’t cause any more trouble now.” He laughed, a frightening, manic sound that was almost worse than everything else he was doing to her. She knew the sound would give her nightmares.
“Nothing to say?” His voice was inflamed and hostile.
Panic like she’d never known before welled in her throat as he trailed his fingers down her torso to her feet.
She tried to move away from his touch but the restraints held firm. She wasn’t going anywhere and her stomach turned as realization set in.
He laughed.
Tears seeped into the fabric of her blindfold. As she was pulled into sleep, her last conscious thought was of the man she loved. He’d find her...
6:00am ~ 4 days later
A trail of white mist filled the air in front of Quinten as his breath froze. The cold was unusual for Florida, but they’d been under a cold spell fo
r over a week.
The weather didn’t really bother him as much as the lack of sleep did. He tried to rub the gritty feeling of tiredness from his eyes. His feet were heavy as he moved through yet another section of the forest, ducking and just missing being hit in the face by a stray branch.
He felt crazed, like his mind was trapped somewhere else and he was just a shell searching through the ruins of his life. He’d been this way from the moment Saige’s abandoned car had been discovered along the side of the highway.
Quinten hadn’t been able to just sit back in his small house while his wife, Jocelyn, had been on constant repeat with the vulgar things she spewed. The last straw had been when she casually said Saige Lockwood was probably dead. He’d never wanted to hit anyone as much as he wanted to hit her right then. He hadn’t. Instead he’d told her to pack her bags and be gone by the time he got back—something he should have told her to do three years ago.
Unable to accept that Saige had been taken from him, he’d started his own search. Twenty-seven hours later, he was exhausted and knew he’d have to rest soon or he’d pass out from lack of sleep or lack of nourishment.
The fatigue would explain why, when he took his next step, his feet went out from under him. With a thump he landed on his ass. He scrambled for a foothold as he started to slide down the muddy slope, his arms flailed out as he tried to grab onto a branch to try and slow his momentum. Seconds later, his body jolted painfully as he collided into a wooden shack.
Stunned, Quinten moved into a sitting position, his body aching from the fall. With a quick glance around, he realized the shack was invisible to the naked eye, hidden so deeply in the foliage that he’d have probably missed it if he hadn’t fallen. Walking around to the front, he noticed the shiny lock on the door. It told him he was on the right track, or he prayed he was.
Dropping his knapsack to the ground, he took out his pocketknife and quickly tried to pry the lock open, but it wouldn’t budge. The wood that held the lock was worn, so he stabbed at that and smiled when splinters of wood started to fly off.
He quickly took in his surroundings, which ended up being a big mistake. Pain shot up his arm to his shoulder, radiating throughout his body, as he missed the wood. Blood ran in rivulets down to his hand, dropping on the ground.
The good thing was that he’d gotten the door loose. The bad thing was that if he didn’t stop the flow of his own blood soon, he wouldn’t be of much use to anyone.
Standing back, he kicked the door of the shack open, stumbled inside, and knew he’d never forget the sight that greeted him.
He paused on the threshold as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and his brain tried to ignore the smells that assaulted him. He choked on the horror of it all and staggered toward the wooden table bolted to the middle of the floor. “Saige,” he whispered, his mouth dry, voice broken with the overwhelming grief he felt. She didn’t move and he hesitated before his fingers searched her neck for a pulse. Relief flooded through him...she had one, albeit faint.
The weakness in his body drew his attention to his arm, which he’d forgotten about. He took a quick glance around the shack, and moved to what looked like a workbench. Grabbing an old rag, he wound it around his arm and tied off a tourniquet before he moved back to Saige’s still body.
So much blood.
The leather straps around her ankles and wrists felt new and were stiff and unyielding as his fingers fumbled with the buckles.
He grabbed what looked to be a surgical knife and sawed through the bindings before he moved to her neck. He gulped and swiped at the tears and sweat that blurred his vision. He couldn’t afford tears, they’d have to wait until Saige was safe.
