Page 86 of Auctioned Innocence
Sofia pushes the bike harder than I would dare, threading between guardrails and cliff faces with inches to spare.
Every turn sends fresh waves of agony through my torn ribs, but gradually the headlights behind us fade and disappear.
By the time I’m sure we’ve lost them, my vision is blurring from blood loss and Sofia’s shivering against the cold mountain air.
The cabin appears through the trees like salvation—a place even Marco doesn’t know about.
My grandfather’s old hunting lodge, bought under a name that died with him.
Off every grid that matters.
“How bad?” Sofia asks as I nearly collapse getting off the bike.
“I’ll live.” But we both know it’s close. She helps me inside, her small hands surprisingly steady as she peels away the blood-soaked bandage.
The wound has reopened completely. Fresh blood seeps between her fingers as she applies pressure.
“There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom,” I manage. “Real supplies this time.”
She works in silence, cleaning and stitching clumsily. “Fucking thread,” she mutters to herself. “Hold still.”
Her hands shake only slightly—fear or exhaustion, hard to tell.
“Where did you learn?—”
“Marco’s paranoid training included field medicine.” Her voice is tight with concentration. “Though I never thought I’d be using it on you.”
The cabin is sparse but functional.
One room, one bed, defensible sight lines.
I do a perimeter check while Sofia explores, noting escape routes and potential threats.
Old habits.
“Your secret hideout actually has running water,” she observes. “I was expecting more…survivalist chic.”
“My grandfather believed in being comfortable while hiding from the law.” The joke falls flat. Nothing feels funny right now.
I settle into the chair by the window—best vantage point, clear view of the access road.
Sofia curls up on the small couch, but sleep doesn’t come easily for either of us.
Every sound puts me on edge.
Every shadow could hide danger.
Around 3 a.m., she jolts awake with a gasp that cuts through the silence.
“Hey.” I’m beside her before I think, hands gentle on her shoulders. “Just a dream.”
“Maisie,” she whispers, and the broken sound nearly undoes me. “I keep seeing her fall.”
I pull her against my chest without thinking, her body warm and solid and alive.
She melts into me like she belongs there, and for a moment all that existed was this—her breathing evening out, her trust absolute.
The memory of a few hours ago crashes over me like a wave.
