Page 101 of Stolen Rebel

“Pull in here,” I instruct when the map tells me we’re a half mile out.

Dan parks in front of a rusted gate with tractor tracks beyond. A dozen or so sheep are huddled together against the weather. It’s drizzling when we get out. I bow my head against the wind and plow forward. We crest a hill, the valley surrounded by nothing but farmland. I frown and turn a complete three-sixty. There’s nothing here. No car, no barn, no dwelling.

I glance at my phone. The red dot is still there, still not moving. I keep walking toward it. Then it’s behind me. What the fuck? A slow realization slithers into my mind.

“He fucking found it.” I turn around for something to punch, but there’s only Dan, and he doesn’t deserve a broken jaw. I scan the ground. “It’s gotta be here somewhere,” I mutter.

“There.” Dan points and, sure enough, lying in a tuft of grass is a tracking tag.

Murray has my woman, and I haven’t a fucking clue where she is.

Chapter 44

ROWAN

There’s a throbbing behind my eyes that’s pulsing in time with my heartbeat. When I blink into consciousness, a metallic taste fills my mouth making me gag. My limbs are cold, numb, and I’m in a room, bound but the bindings are loose.

That was the fucker’s first mistake. He still thinks I’m the girl he took.

And I’m alone.

That was his second.

It’s not easy to curl my legs up and bring my bound hands under them and to my front, but with a great deal of swearing, I manage it. If I make it out of this alive, I’m dragging Sorcha to Pilates classes. A woman of my age should not be this stiff. Or this close to dying because a man decided I was a piece in a game of chess.

And I won’t ever let someone get the upper hand on me again. I swear to God, I’ll take every self-defense class known to man to make sure I never end up discarded in a frigid house with a psychopath and his even more psychotic mother.

Erin would stay. But Rowan? Rowan is going to fight to the fucking death. Even if it turns me into someone I don’t recognize.

There’s a rusty nail sticking out of a dilapidated dresser to my left, so I move toward it. I’ve seen enough films to know that a bit of friction can get anyone out of anything. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. There’s no hope. It’s David and Goliath, and despite hearing Brian somewhere in the house on the phone, I know for sure I won’t be left alone indefinitely.

It’s me and my stubbornness against the clock. Every second I’m in here is a second closer to him coming back through that door.

I start sawing at the binding around my wrists, my arms heavy. My eyes blur with tears as they spill down my cheeks, and my hands shake with the cold. And fear. If they come back in here and find me trying to escape, they’ll make it even harder to try next time, or worse, impossible. This is all I’ve got. My one chance.

I hiss when the skin of my wrist tears. Warm blood slicks over my hands, making everything harder and messier. I wince at the thought of dirt or rust particles getting into my body. That’s a future Rowan’s problem. The bleeding, the potential infection, I’ll deal with all of that once I get the fuck out of here.

I give up on trying to break the binding; it’s not for moving, and the energy under my skin just screams to run. So, I do. I have to go through the kitchen on my way to the back door, and as though fate played a hand in it, there’s a knife block on the counter.

Thank you very much.

I take the biggest knife, brace it between my knees, and use it to free my hands with a couple of long drags across the blade. Yes. The knife still has life in it.

As soon as I’m free, I reach into the robe pocket for my phone. God fucking dammit. Brian must’ve taken it when I was unconscious. I don’t have time to look for it. I need to get out of here, fast.

Gripping the hilt of the knife, I take off, closing the back door behind me and bolting out into the night. Cold air rips at my lungs as I flee, but I don’t look back. My bare feet slip in the field, mud oozing between my toes with each step away from my captors.

A crack of a branch makes me freeze in place, my heart thundering, blood surging through my veins. He’s coming for me. I try to breathe quietly, moving into the tall grass to hide from whatever horror might come my way.

My heart stutters. He knows where I’ll go because he taught me how to hide.

I tuck the knife behind me. I don’t want him or his ma to know I have it right off the bat. The element of surprise will be what wins this war with these two. They’ve been oddly prepared and ready from the get-go, and I want them thinking I’ve just escaped with bound hands and ran.

He comes at me from the front, his firm hand grabbing me by the throat. He snickers in my face. “Nice try, Rowan. But you’re not going anywhere.”

The edges of my vision blur, and my hand twitches, threatening to drop the knife, but instead, I thrust it at his torso. I don’t aim. I try not to think about how I’m hurting another human being, only that he’s trying to hurt me. It’s me or him. I have no idea what’s on the left side of his body, but I spear the knife at him enough that he lets me go, stumbling backward and clutching his side.

I make a run for it. His hand shoots out, fingers curling around my ankle and yanking. I go down hard, the air punching out of my lungs as my shoulder slams into the ground. The knife almost flies from my grip.