Page 38 of Oliver

He stiffened.

“Don’t say his name like that.”

I smirked. “What, are you mad that he finally got caught?”

He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. So keep your mouth shut or I’ll slit your throat, right here.”

His breath smelled like cheap beer and rotten burritos.

“No,” I said calmly. “Youdon’t know what I’m capable of.”

With a twist, I jerked my arm free and slammed the cup—plastic and all-into the side of his face. He staggered back just enough for me to dive across the floor, dragging the remaining small piece of rope. I must have worked the knot against the rope to make it come undone.

I didn’t make it far.

He recovered fast—too fast—and tackled me. We crashed into the coffee table, splintering it in two.

“You stupid—”

Before he could finish, I slammed my knee up into his ribs and rolled. He grabbed my ankle, yanking me back toward him, but I kicked hard his knee—once, twice—until I heard a satisfying crack.

He roared in pain.

I scrambled to my feet and ran—barefoot, dazed, bleeding, butmoving. I didn’t know the layout, but I knew I had to find a door, a window,anything.

I turned the corner and slammed into a second man.

Fuck.

He caught me before I hit the floor, eyes wide in shock.

But then he whispered, “Emery?”

I froze. That voice.

“Faron?”

He held a finger to his lips, then slipped a knife into my hand. “Oliver’s outside. Let’s end this.”

A shout echoed behind us—my captor had found his feet again.

Faron pushed me behind him and stepped into the narrow hallway like he owned the building. I heard glass shatter, then the pounding of boots on stairs.

Oliver’s voice bellowed from somewhere outside, “EMERY!”

“I’m here!” I screamed, my voice cracking as I sprinted down the hallway.

“Emery!” Oliver opened the door, and I didn’t slow down.

I crashed into him at full speed, my arms wrapping around his neck, his arms locking around my waist like steel. I didn’t care that I was shaking or barefoot or bleeding. I washome—right here, in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into my hair. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

I couldn’t stop shaking. My legs were weak. My body was trembling from adrenaline, fear, rage, and relief. He held me tighter, his hand cradling the back of my head like I might shatter.

“I thought—” I gasped, burying my face into his shoulder. “I thought I was going to die.”

“You didn’t,” he said fiercely. “You didn’t, because you’re a damn warrior.”

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