Page 91 of A Violet Obsession

My breath comes in panicked gasps. Numbness spreads through my hands, but I clutch the gun tight and point myself downhill. Without Finn’s steady footing, I’m slower. Or maybe I just can’t bear to leave him behind.

Shouts echo behind me. I can’t tell which direction. I bite my lip until I taste blood so I won’t cry out.

More gunshots. How many rounds does he have? Did he grab extra ammunition? I can’t remember.

Think, Lily. There has to be a way to help him.

My shoes hit an ice slick. Arms windmilling, I careen toward the ridge’s edge. Losing my grip on the gun I watch it tumble over the edge. I catch myself at the last second, sucking in air.

Crap. That was close.

Noises in the woods nearby. Some of them must have realized we split up. And I’m standing here in a white cardigan like a damn beacon.

I strip it off, ready to drop it, then stop. Instead, I ball it up and hurl it over the edge. It snags halfway down, a pale flag waving in the wind. Then both shoes—one after the other—sailing after it, crashing through branches like a body tumbling down the slope.

I let out a ragged, terrified scream. It’s not even acting.

I am terrified.

A triumphant shout rises through the trees, and I want to wail.

They have him.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

He told you to go. He sacrificed himself for you. Don’t make it pointless.

“Where is she?” The rough voice comes from much closer than I expect.

“Shit. Did you hear that scream? Think she went over the edge?”

“Aw fuck. That’s a sweater. I can’t see to the bottom.”

A second voice, off to the right. “Tate wants her breathing. Move your ass, and you better find a body we can work with.”

Boots crunch away toward the ridge.

My brain screams orders. My heart refuses to listen.

I can’t leave him.

I press my back to a trunk, icy bark biting my shoulders, and force my legs to move. But not downhill.

I go back up.

My socked feet unhappy with every step, I pick my way uphill using the trunks for cover. The sounds grow worse the closer I get. No more shooting. Just fists. The wet crack of something hitting flesh.

I crest a small rise and freeze.

Finn is on his knees in the snow. Blood runs down the side of his face from a gash at his hairline. One eye is already swelling shut. A man stands behind Finn with a pistol pressed to the back of his skull. Several stand nearby with rifles pointed at the ground.

“Where is she?” one demands, driving a fist into Finn’s mouth.

Finn spits red into the snow. And then—he laughs.

“That all you've got?” His voice comes out almost amused, “You hit like my little sister.”

A rifle butt slams into his stomach. He folds, and I bite down on my knuckle to stay silent.