Page 85 of Fury
He carries me through the dark forest, his breathing steady despite the exertion. The moon provides just enough light to navigate between the trees, and I can tell he's following some internal compass, keeping us moving east toward the highway.
"How far do you think it is?" I whisper after what feels like an hour.
"Three, maybe four miles," he replies, adjusting his grip to hold me more securely. "We'll make it."
But I can feel the strain in his muscles, see the exhaustion creeping into his face. He's lost blood, taken multiple blows, and now he's carrying me through rough terrain in the middle of the night. Even Greyson has limits.
"Let's rest," I suggest. "Just for a minute."
He shakes his head stubbornly. "They could be right behind us."
"You're no good to either of us if you collapse," I reason. "Just five minutes. Please."
Reluctantly, he lowers me onto a fallen log, his hands lingering as if he can't bear to the break contact. He crouches beside me, scanning our surroundings with predatory focus.
"How's the ankle?" he asks, gently probing the swollen joint.
"Throbbing," I admit. "But I'll survive."
His fingers brush my cheek, tenderness replacing the warrior's mask for just a moment. "Yes, you will. I promise you that."
After barely three minutes of rest, he's lifting me again, ignoring my insistence that I can hobble along with his support. The forest gradually thins as we continue east, the underbrush becoming less dense.
"Listen," I whisper suddenly, my body tensing. "Do you hear that?"
Greyson freezes, his head tilting slightly. A distant rumble breaks the night's silence—engines, multiple ones, coming closer.
"Could be Volkov's backup," he says, immediately veering toward a denser area for cover.
"Or it could be help," I counter, hope flaring in my chest. "The club would be looking for us by now."
Greyson hesitates, torn between caution and the need for allies. Finally, he changes direction, moving toward the sound rather than away from it.
"If it's not our people," he warns, "we run. No matter what."
The rumble grows louder as we approach what must be a road. Through gaps in the trees, I catch glimpses of headlights moving fast along the pavement.
"There," Greyson whispers, nodding toward a break in the tree line. "That's the old logging road. It connects back to the highway about ten miles south of town."
He sets me down carefully behind a large oak, pressing the gun into my hands. "Stay here. I'll check it out first."
Before I can protest, he's slipped away, moving silently toward the road's edge. I hold my breath, counting the seconds until he returns, the gun steady in my grip.
When he emerges from the shadows minutes later, his face is transformed with relief. "It's them." His voice is thick with emotion. "Your dad, Trenton, Zach—they've brought half the damn club."
Relief crashes through me, so powerful I nearly collapse. Greyson lifts me again, and this time I don't argue, burying my face against his neck as he carries me the final distance to the road.
The moment we break from the trees, the rumble of bikes surrounds us. Headlights illuminate Greyson's bloodied face, my torn clothes, the evidence of our ordeal written on our bodies.
"LIVIE!" My father's voice cuts through the night as he leaps from his bike, running toward us with Trenton and Zach close behind. Torch pulls up in a truck, already throwing open the back doors.
Dad reaches us first, his face ashen as he takes in our condition. "Jesus Christ," he breathes, hands hovering over me as if afraid to make contact. "What happened? Who did this?"
"Volkov," Greyson says, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. "Russian mob. They took us from the road near Cole and Harlan’s. To a cabin in the woods about six miles west of here."
Dad's expression hardens to something terrifying. "How many?"
"Two dead in the forest. Volkov and one other are still at the cabin, but they called for backup." Greyson sways slightly, his strength finally flagging. "They've got Diane. Or had her. She's the one who told them to come after Livie."
