Page 83 of Kings of Sherwood

He pushes me away from him, almost too rough, his shirt still unbuttoned, his jeans loose.

“I’llshift, Maren,” he says, almost an order. “Meet you there.”

Right. I nod. His hands fall away, and I watch his body ripple and collapse and reform as the fox takes his place—dusky red, eyes gleaming—and he bolts, to the brush and trees, quick and silent as smoke.

I spin toward the parking lot, heart hammering.

The truck’s thirty feet away.

I sprint.

Keys. Where the fuck are the keys?

They’re in my shorts pocket—they should be, unless I dropped them—

Focus, Maren.

I’m there. I yank the door open, throw myself into the driver’s seat, but my hands are shaking so hard I drop the damn keys in the footwell. I fold down, searching for them blindly, grasping with fingers—

Shouting, footsteps. Squealing wheels, rev of an engine. Coming, they’re coming.

I shove my arm further forward, shoulder banging the dash—

“Over there! This way, you fuckin’—”

“Go!”

I close my eyes, pray—he’s got to be far enough away by now, got to be, he’s fast—when the passenger door wrenches open.

No.Go back, stay back,run away, Rob.I twist up to look at him, frantic—

“What—”

But it’s not Rob.

Hands grab for me, rough and fast.

“Got her,” someone yells.

“No!” I scream. My forearm slams the horn—brief, useless. “Get—let me go!”

I’m fighting, clawing, thrashing. But it’s too strong, they’re too strong—pulling me out by the legs, tearing me from the cab.

I get one solid kick in before something thick and black drops over my head.

Chapter Nineteen

Rob

Irun like hell.

The wind’s in my ears, the trees a blur, paws hitting the dirt in a rhythm too fast to feel or hear anything—

Anything but that sound.

A scream.

Maren.

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