Текст книги "Cress"

Автор книги: Marissa Meyer

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Cress stumbled along beside her. “Really?”

The woman tilted her head, squinting at Cress. “Mostly we’ve found that your people just want to keep to themselves. After going through all the trouble of making it to Earth, why risk getting caught and sent back, after all?”

Cress let herself be led on as she listened, surprised at how rationally Jina was speaking about it all. All the Earthen media had led her to believe there was such a hatred toward Lunars, that she could never be accepted. But what if that wasn’t true at all?

“I hope you won’t be offended by my asking,” Jina continued, “but are you … ungifted?”

She nodded dumbly, and was surprised at the smug grin that passed over Jina’s face, like she’d guessed it all along. “There’s Niels.”

Cress’s thoughts were swimming. To think that she and Thorne could have told them the truth from the start … but, no, he was still a wanted criminal. She would have to think of a new story as to why she and Thorne were together. Did they think he was Lunar too?

Niels and Kwende were standing outside a big dusty vehicle with enormous traction wheels. Its hood was up, a cord plugged into a generator attached to a building, and a wide door was open in the back. They were loading things into it—many sacks of goods that Cress thought she recognized from the camels.

“Making room for the new cargo?” said Jina, coming up to stand with the men.

If Niels was surprised to see Cress there without her husband, he didn’t show it. “About done,” he said, dusting his hands. “The engine’s near a complete charge. Should have no problem getting us to Farafrah and back without having to break into the petroleum reserves.”

“Fara…?” Cress glanced at Jina. “You’re not staying?”

Jina clicked her tongue. “Oh, Jamal and a few others are, but we’ve had a new order, so we need to make a special trip. There’s always more business to attend to.”

“But you just got here. What about the camels?”

Niels laughed. “They’ll stay in the town stables and be happy for the break. Sometimes they suit our needs, and sometimes we need something a bit faster.” He thumped a palm down on the side of the truck. “Have you been crying?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, dipping her head.

“Jina?”

Jina’s hand tightened on Cress’s arm, and she responded to his unspoken query in their other language. Cress flushed, wishing she knew what Jina was saying.

Then he smiled cryptically, and nodded.

Cress was grabbed suddenly from behind. A hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her startled cry as she was shoved past Jina, past Niels. Her head was forced down as she was thrust into the back of the vehicle, banging her shins on the bumper. The hatch slammed shut. Pitch blackness surrounded her.

Niels barked something she didn’t understand, and then the engine rumbled beneath her. She heard two more doors slam near the front of the vehicle.

“No!” She threw herself at the hatch, pounding her fists against the metal. She screamed until her throat went hoarse, until the rumble and sway of the vehicle grew rough and the bumps threw her against a pile of bolted fabrics.

Her mind was still spinning when, not minutes later, she felt the vibrations change. They’d already left the paved streets of Kufra behind.

BOOK

Three

“The cat has caught the bird, and she will scratch out your eyes as well.

You will never see your Rapunzel again.”

Thirty-One

The girl returned from her trip to the bar, setting a drink against Thorne’s wrist so he would know where it was.

He tilted his head toward her and lifted the cards. “What do you think?”

Her braids brushed his shoulder. “I think…” She tugged at two cards in his hand. “These two.”

“Precisely the two I was thinking,” he said, taking hold of the two cards. “Our luck is changing, right about … now.”

“Two to the blind man,” said the dealer, and Thorne heard the cards slapping down on the table. He slid them up into his hand.

The woman clicked her tongue. “That’s not what we wanted,” she said, and he could hear the pout in her voice.

“Ah, well,” said Thorne. “We can’t win them all. Or, apparently, any of them.” He waited until the bidding came around before folding. The woman leaned closer from behind him and nuzzled his neck. “The next hand will be yours.”

Thorne grinned. “I am feeling lucky.”

He listened as the bidding went twice around the table and the winner claimed the pot with jesters and sevens. From the man’s gruff voice, Thorne pictured a scraggly beard and an excessive belly. He’d drawn up detailed mental images of all the players at the table. The dealer was a tall and skinny man with a fine mustache. The lady beside him was elderly and something kept jangling when she took her cards, so Thorne pictured an abundance of gaudy jewelry. He judged the man to his right to be scrawny with bad skin, but that was probably because he was winning the most.

Of course, the woman who had draped herself over Thorne was viciously hot.

And not at all lucky, it turned out.

The dealer dealt out another hand and Thorne raised his cards. Behind him, the girl let out a sad whistle. “So sorry, love,” she whispered.

He pouted. “No hope? What a shame.”

The bidding opened, moving around the table. Check. Bet. Raise.

Thorne tapped his fingers against his cards and sighed. They were useless, judging from the woman’s sad inflection.

Naturally, he put his palm against his chips and slid the entire stack toward the center of the table, listening to the happy clatter of chips falling against one another. Not that he had a lot of them. “All in,” he said.

The woman behind him was silent. The hand on his shoulder didn’t even twitch. Nothing to acknowledge that he’d gone against her suggestion.

Poker face, indeed.

“You’re a fool,” said the scrawny player, but he folded.

Then the bearded man snorted with a sound that made Thorne’s spine tingle—not from concern, but expectation. This was his man.

“I’d raise if I thought you had anything left to bet,” he said, followed by the clicking and clacking of chips.

The last two players folded. The dealer passed out cards to replace the throwaways—two to Thorne’s opponent.

He kept all his cards. If his lady disapproved, her statuesque hands hinted at nothing.

They didn’t bother to bid for the second round, knowing that Thorne was maxed out. Thorne fanned his cards out on the table. The dealer called them out, his finger thumping against his opponent’s hand. “Doubles.” Then—“Royal triplets win!”

Thorne arched an eyebrow as the old lady with the jewelry let out a delighted giggle. “To the blind man!”

“I trust the royal triplets were mine?”

“Indeed. Nice hand,” said the dealer, pushing the chips in Thorne’s direction.

He heard a chair crash to the ground. “You outdated piece of junk! You should have told him to fold that hand!”

“I did,” said the girl behind Thorne, in an even tone that failed to acknowledge the insult. “He chose to ignore my recommendation.”

Thorne tipped back in his chair. “It’s your own fault for teaching her the game so well. If I’d won even a couple hands I wouldn’t have been suspicious, but even my luck isn’t this bad.” He twirled his fingers through the air, enjoying the explanation. “I just had to wait until there was a hand she claimed wasn’t salvageable—and then I’d know I had a winner.” Beaming, he leaned forward and scooped the chips toward him, enjoying the way they filled up his arms. He heard a couple drop to the floor, but left them, unable to suffer the indignity of rummaging around with his fingers.

“But,” he said, beginning to stack up his earnings, chip by chip, having no idea what color or value any of them were, “I’m willing to make you a deal, if you aren’t too sore a loser.”

“What deal? That was almost everything I had.”

“Your own fault, of course. For cheating.”

The man gargled something incoherent.

“But I’m nothing if not a businessman. I’d like to buy your escort-droid from you.” He waved his fingers over the stacks of chips. “Would you say she’s worth about … this much?”

The man spluttered. “You can’t even see her!”

Smirking, Thorne reached up and patted the hand that still rested on his shoulder. “She’s very believable,” he said. “But I’m a man of keen observation and, what can I say? She seems to be missing a pulse.” He gestured at the chips again. “Fair trade?”

He heard the screech of chair legs on tiles and the clomping of the man’s boots as he rounded the table. “Uh-oh.”

Thorne grabbed his cane from where he’d propped it against the table, just as he was pulled out of his seat by his shirt collar.

“Now, let’s be gentleme—”

A crunching pain rattled through his skull, snapping his head back. He fell onto the floor, his cheekbone throbbing and the taste of iron on his tongue. Testing that his jaw worked, he pressed a hand against his face, knowing the punch would leave one heck of a mark. “That,” he muttered through his muddled thoughts, “was not politically correct.”

A man roared, followed by more chairs screeching and furniture falling and something like dishes shattering and people yelling and then there was a mess of limbs crawling and tumbling as a full-scale brawl broke out in the bar.

Thorne curled up on himself, holding his cane above his head as a pathetic shield against the chaos, trying to make himself as small a target as he could. A wayward knee connected with his hip. A falling chair battered his forearms.

Two hands snaked beneath his armpits, hauling him backward. Thorne kicked at the floor, allowing himself to be pulled out of the cluster of elbows and knees.

“You all right?” said a man.

Thorne used his cane to level himself onto his feet and shoved his back against a wall, glad for its support and protection. “Yeah, thanks. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a guy who goes berserk when he gets caught cheating. If you’re going to do it, you have to be ready to take the fallout like a man.”

“Good policy. But I think he was more upset over you insulting his woman.”

Thorne cringed and wiped some blood from his mouth. He was glad that at least all of his teeth felt secure. “Don’t tell me she’s not an escort-droid. I could have sworn…”

“Oh, she’s definitely an escort. Cute one too. It’s just a lot of men don’t like admitting that their arm accessory is bought and programmed.”

Readjusting the bandanna, Thorne shook his head. “Again. If you’re going to do it, own it like a man. Not to be rude, but do I know you?”

“Jamal, from the caravan.”

“Jamal. Right. Thanks for the rescue.”

“My pleasure. You probably want to get some ice on that eye. Come on, let’s get out of this mess before anyone else takes a dislike to you.”

Thirty-Two

“Oooooooww,” Thorne moaned, placing a cooling pack against his throbbing cheekbone. “Why did he have to hit so hard?”

“You’re lucky he didn’t break your nose or knock out any teeth,” said Jamal. Thorne could hear him shuffling around, followed by glasses clinking together.

“That’s true. I am rather attached to my nose.”

“There’s a chair behind you.”

Thorne tested the floor with his cane until it struck something hard, and eased himself onto the chair. He leaned the cane against the side and adjusted the pack on his cheekbone.

“Here.”

He held out his free hand and was glad when a cold, condensation-slicked glass was put into it. He sniffed first. The drink smelled faintly of lemons. Taking a sip, he found that it was cold and frothy, tart and delicious. The absence of sudden warmth suggested there was no alcohol.

“Tamr hindi,” said Jamal. “Tamarind juice. My favorite thing in the trading cities.”

“Thank you.” Thorne took a bigger gulp, his cheeks puckering from the sourness.

“Have you always been such a gambler?” Jamal asked.

“I guess you could say I enjoy a challenge. No survival skills? Let’s honeymoon in the desert. Can’t see? Let’s go play some cards. I would have won too, if that guy hadn’t gotten so touchy.”

He thought he heard a chuckle, but then Jamal slurped at his drink.

“Were you there the whole time? Watching that escort-droid bleed me dry and not saying anything?”

“If a blind man wants to lose his head in a suicide card game, why should I stop him?”

Thorne relaxed against the back of the chair. “I guess I can respect that.”

“I am curious why you didn’t bring your girl with you. I’d have thought she’d be a valuable asset.”

“I thought she could use the rest.” Thorne adjusted the cooling pack on his face. “Plus, I don’t think she’s ever played Royals before, and there are all those tricky rules to explain…”

“And she probably wouldn’t have been pleased about you wanting an escort-droid?”

Thorne guffawed. “Oh, no, no, I didn’t want the escort for me. I thought she’d make a nice gift.” A silence followed and he was sure he could picture the skepticism on Jamal’s face, despite having no idea what Jamal looked like. “She was for this android … spaceship … friend of mine. It’s complicated.”

“It always is.” Jamal clinked their glasses together. “I get it, though. You get your hands on an escort-droid, all the while keeping everyone’s attention away from the true prize upstairs. You do seem like the protective sort.”

Thorne’s instincts hummed at something in Jamal’s tone. “Well. I am a lucky man.”

“Yes, you are. A girl like that doesn’t fall out of the sky every day.”

Thorne kept his smile for a heartbeat, then downed the rest of the drink. His nose crinkled. “Speaking of Mrs. Smith, I should get back to her. Promised to bring up some food and then got carried away … you know how it is.”

“I wouldn’t be in any hurry,” said Jamal. “I saw her with Jina a couple hours ago. I think the ladies were going out for some refreshments.”

The grin froze on Thorne’s face, and now he knew for sure something wasn’t right. Cress, leave the hotel without telling him? Not likely.

But why would Jamal lie about something like that?

“Ah. Good,” he said, hiding his uncertainty. He set the empty glass down on the floor, tucking it beneath the chair so he wouldn’t trip on it later. “Cress could use some … girly … time. Did they happen to say where they were going?”

“No, but there are plenty of eateries on this street. Why? Afraid she might run off without you?”

Thorne snorted, but it sounded forced even to him. “Naw. This’ll be good for her. Making friends … Eating stuff.”

“Exploring all that Earth has to offer?”

His expression must have been hilarious, because Jamal’s laugh was loud and abrupt.

“I knew you wouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “Kwende thought you didn’t know she was Lunar, but I figured you would. You strike me as the type of man who has a keen sense of value. Especially when I saw you bargaining for that escort downstairs. Even blind, you do seem to have impeccable taste in female companionship.”

“This is true,” Thorne murmured, trying to recapture this conversation. Sense of value? Impeccable taste? What was he talking about?

“So tell me how you came across her. It was a Lunar satellite, I’ve got that much, but how did you get tangled up with her to begin with? Did you find her still in space, or down here in the desert? Must have been in space, I guess. There was that podship in the wreckage.”

“Um. It’s kind of a long story.”

“No matter. Not like I’m going to be up in space any time soon. But then to crash. That couldn’t have been part of your original plan.” Ice cubes crackled. “Tell me this, did you plan on bringing her to Africa the whole time, or are there more lucrative markets elsewhere in the Union?”

“Um. I thought … Africa…” Thorne scratched his jaw. “You said they’ve been gone for a couple hours?”

“Give or take.” Chair legs squeaked across the floor. “So you must have known she was a shell when you found her? Couldn’t find me trading in their kind otherwise, don’t care how much they’re worth.”

Thorne spread his free hand out on his knee and pressed his sudden panic into it. So they knew about the crashed satellite, and they knew Cress was a shell, and they seemed to be under the impression there was a market for that. And that Thorne wanted to, what? Sell her? Trade her as stolen goods? Was there some strange black-market demand for shells that he wasn’t aware of?

“Honestly, Lunars terrify me too,” he said, trying to hide his ignorance. “But not Cress. She’s harmless.”

“Harmless, and not terrible to look at, either. So short, though.” There were footsteps—Jamal walking to the other side of the room, something being poured. “Another drink?”

Thorne eased his tense knuckles off his own leg. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Glass on wood.

“So do you know where you’re taking her yet? Or are you still shopping around for a good price? I figured you were probably taking her to that old doctor in Farafrah, but I have to tell you, I think Jina’s interested. Could save you a lot of trouble.”

Thorne smothered his discomfort and tried to imagine they weren’t talking about Cress at all. They were business associates, discussing merchandise. He just had to figure out what Jamal knew that he clearly didn’t.

He slipped his finger beneath the blindfold, stretching the fabric away from his eyes. It was becoming too tight, and his cheek was throbbing more painfully than ever. “Interesting proposition,” he said slowly. “But why deal with a middleman when I can go straight to the end buyer?”

“Convenience. We’ll take her off your hands and you can be off on the next treasure hunt. Plus, we know this market better than anyone. We’ll make sure she ends up in a nice place—if you care about that sort of thing.” He paused. “What were you hoping to get for her, anyway?”

Merchandise. Business transactions. He attempted nonchalance, but his skin was crawling and he found it difficult to set aside the memory of Cress’s hand in his.

“Make me an offer,” he said.

There was a long hesitation. “I can’t speak for Jina.”

“Then why are we having this conversation? Sounds to me like you’re wasting my time.” Thorne reached for his cane.

“She did give me a number,” said Jamal. Thorne paused, and after a long silence, Jamal continued, “But I’m not qualified to finalize anything.”

“We could at least find out if we’re all playing the same game.”

More slurping, followed by a long sigh.

“We could offer you 20,000 for her.”

This time, the shock was impossible to hide. Thorne felt like Jamal had just kicked him in the chest. “20,000 univs?”

A sharp laugh rang off the walls. “Too low? You’ll have to discuss it with Jina. But if you don’t mind me asking, what were you hoping to get for her?”

Thorne snapped his mouth shut. If their starting offer was 20,000 univs, what did they think she was really worth? He felt like a fool. What was this—Lunar trafficking? Some sort of weird fetishism?

She was a girl. A living girl, smart and sweet and awkward and unusual, and she was worth far more than they could ever realize.

“Don’t be shy, Mr. Smith. You must have had some number in mind.”

His thoughts started to clear, and it occurred to him that in many ways, he was just like these people. A businessman out to make a quick profit, who had been lucky enough to stumble onto a naïve, overly trusting Lunar shell.

Except, he had a bad habit of just taking the things that he wanted.

He dug his fingernails into his thighs. If she was worth that much, why wouldn’t they simply take her?

Panic swept through him, like a lightning bolt arcing through every limb. This wasn’t a negotiation—this was a distraction. He’d been right before. Jamal was wasting his time. Intentionally.

Thorne dropped the cooling pack and launched himself out of the chair, grabbing the cane. He was at the door in two strides, his hand fumbling for the knob, yanking open the door.

“Cress!” he yelled, trying to remember how many doors they’d passed to get to Jamal’s room. He was turned around, unable to remember which side of the hall his and Cress’s room had been on to begin with. “CRESS!” He stormed down the hall, pounding aimlessly on the walls and doors he passed.

“Can I help you, Master?”

He spun toward the female voice, his optimism thinking for a second that it was her, but no. The sound was too airy and fake, and Cress called him Captain.

Who would call him Master?

“Who’s that?”

“My previous master called me Darling,” said the voice. “I’m your new escort-droid. The house rules gave my former master a choice of returning your earnings to you, or accepting your offered trade. He chose the trade, which means that I am now your personal property. You seem stressed. Would you like me to sing a relaxing song while I rub your shoulders?”

Realizing that he was gripping his cane like a weapon, Thorne shook his head. “Room eight. Where is it?”

He heard a couple doors open down the hallway.

“Cress?”

“What’s all the noise about?” said a man.

Someone else started talking in that language Thorne didn’t recognize.

“Here’s room eight,” said the escort. “Shall I knock?”

“Yes!” He followed the sound of her knocking and tested the knob. Locked. He cursed. “CRESS!”

“Can we keep it down out here?”

“I’m afraid I’m programmed to avoid destruction of property, so I am unable to break down this door for you, Master. Shall I go to the front desk and retrieve a key?”

Thorne pounded at the door again.

“She’s not in there,” said Jamal from down the hall.

That other language again, fast and annoyed.

“Shall I translate, Master?”

Growling, Thorne marched back toward Jamal, his cane whipping against the corridor walls. He heard yelps of surprise as people ducked back into their rooms to avoid being hit. “Where is she? And don’t try to tell me she’s out enjoying a pleasant meal in town.”

“And what will you do if I won’t tell you? Propose a staring contest?”

He despised that his alarm was showing, but every word raised his temperature, degree by boiling degree. It seemed like hours since he’d so flippantly said good-bye to Cress, when she was still in the bath, when her singing was still echoing in his ears. And he’d left her. He’d just left her—and why? To show off his gambling skills? To prove that he was still self-sufficient? To prove that he didn’t need anyone, not even her?

Every moment that stretched on was agony. They could have taken her anywhere, done anything to her. She could be alone and frightened, wondering why he hadn’t come for her. Wondering why he’d abandoned her.

He lashed out, his hand thwapping Jamal in the ear. Surprised, Jamal tried to duck away, but Thorne had already grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him closer. “Where is she?”

“She’s no longer your concern. If you were so attached, I guess you should have kept a better eye on her, rather than running off and flirting with the first steel-boned escort that passed by.” He placed a hand over Thorne’s. “She saw that, you know. Saw that escort hanging all over you downstairs. Looked pretty shaken up by the sight. Didn’t even hesitate when Jina offered to take her away.”

Thorne gritted his teeth as blood rushed to his face. He couldn’t tell whether Jamal was lying, but the thought of Cress seeing him gambling with that escort-droid, and having no idea what he was really doing …

“See, it’s all just business,” continued Jamal. “You lost her, we took her. At least you got a pretty new toy out of the deal, so try not to feel too upset.”

Grimacing, Thorne tightened his grip around the cane and brought it up as hard as he could, right between Jamal’s legs.

Jamal roared. Backing up, Thorne swung the cane toward his head. It cracked hard, but was quickly jerked out of his hand as Jamal let off a stream of curses.

Thorne reached for the gun that had been nearly forgotten since he and Cress had left the satellite. He pulled it from his waistband and took aim. Screams from the other people in the hall bounced down the corridors, followed by the slamming of doors and the pounding of feet on the stairway.

“From this distance,” he said, “I’m pretty sure I can hit you a few times. I wonder how many shots I can get in before I get a fatal one.” He listed his head. “Then I guess I’ll just take your portscreen, which probably has all your business contacts in it. You said something about a doctor in … Fara-whatta? I guess we’ll try him first.”

He released the safety.

“Wait, wait! You’re right. They were taking her to Farafrah, just a tiny oasis, about three hundred kilometers northeast of here. There’s some doctor there who has a thing for Lunar shells.”

Thorne took a step back into the hallway, though he kept the gun up and ready. “Escort-droid, you still there?”

“Yes, Master. Can I be of assistance?”

“Get me the coordinates of a town called Farafrah, and the fastest way to get there.”

“You’re an idiot to go after her,” said Jamal. “She’ll already be sold, and that old man isn’t going to pay for her twice. You should just cut your losses and move on. She’s just a Lunar shell—she isn’t worth it.”

“If you honestly believe that,” said Thorne, stowing the gun again, “then you really don’t recognize true value when you see it.”

Thirty-Three

Cress crouched in the corner of the van, gripping her knees against her chest. She was trembling, despite the sweltering heat. She was thirsty and hungry and her shins were bruised where they’d collided with the van’s ledge. Though she’d pulled down the bolts of fabric to sit on, the constant jerking of the truck on the uneven ground made her backside ache.

The night was so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, but sleep wouldn’t come. Her thoughts were too erratic as she tried to discern what these people wanted with her. She’d played the moments before her capture over in her head a hundred times, and Jina’s expression had definitely lit up when Cress had confirmed Jina’s suspicions.

She was a shell. A worthless shell.

Why had Jina sensed value in that?

She racked her brain, but nothing made sense.

She tried her best to remain calm. Tried to be optimistic. Tried to tell herself that Thorne would come for her, but doubts kept crowding out the hope.

He couldn’t see. He didn’t know where she’d gone. He probably didn’t even know she was missing yet, and when he found out … what if he thought she’d abandoned him?

What if he didn’t care?

She couldn’t forget the image of Thorne sitting at that card table with some strange girl draped over him. He hadn’t been thinking about Cress then.

Perhaps Thorne wouldn’t come for her.

Perhaps she’d been wrong about him all this time.

Perhaps he wasn’t a hero at all, but just a selfish, arrogant, womanizing—

She sobbed, her head cluttered with too much fear and anger and jealousy and horror and confusion, all of it writhing and squirming in her thoughts until she couldn’t keep her frustrated screams bottled up any longer.

She wailed, scrunching her hair in her fists until her scalp burned.

But her screams died out fast, replaced with clenched teeth as she attempted to calm herself again. She rubbed her fingers around her wrists as if she had long strands of hair to wrap around them. She swallowed hard in an attempt to gulp down the rising panic, to keep herself from hyperventilating.

Thorne would come for her. He was a hero. She was a damsel. That’s how the stories went—that’s how they always went.

With a groan, she settled into her corner and started to cry again, cried until no more tears would come.

Suddenly, she jolted awake.

There was salt dried on her cheeks and her back ached from being hunched over. Her butt and sides were bruised from the bumping of the van, which, she realized, had come to a stop.

She was instantly alert, the grogginess shaken off by a new wave of fear. There was a hint of light coming through the cracks around the doors, which meant they’d driven through the night. A door slammed and she could make out Jina’s chatter, no longer friendly and comforting. The van shook as the driver got out.

“Making good time,” Cress heard a man say. “Someone want to help me back here?”

Another man laughed. “Can’t take the little waif yourself?”

Jina’s voice cut through their boasting. “Try not to bruise her. I want top payment this time, and you know how he negotiates. Nitpicking every little thing.”

Cress gulped as the boots came closer. She steeled herself. She would lunge. She would fight. She would be ferocious. Bite and scratch and kick if she had to. She would take him by surprise.

And then she would run. Fast as a cheetah, graceful as a gazelle.

It was still early. The sand would be cool on her bare feet. Her blisters were almost healed, and while her legs still ached horribly, she could ignore them. Hopefully they would deem her not worth coming after.

Or maybe they would shoot her.

She gulped down the thought. She had to take the risk.

The lock clanked. She took in a deep breath, waited for the door to open—and pounced. A guttural scream was ripped out of her, all her anger and vulnerability swelling up and unleashing in that one vicious moment as her clawed fingers scrabbled for his eyes.

The man caught her. Two hands snapped around her pale wrists. Her momentum kept her careening outside the truck and she would have tumbled to the sand if he hadn’t held her half suspended. Her war cry was abruptly cut off.

The man started to laugh—laughing at her, at her pathetic attempts to overpower him.

“She is a tiger, I’ll give you that,” he said to the man who had teased him. He twisted Cress around so he could hold both of her wrists in one firm grip. Her body still dangled from his hold as he began marching her away from the van and into the dunes.

“Let me go!” she shrieked, kicking back at him, but he was undeterred by her flailing. “Where are you taking me? Let me go!”

“Calm down, little girl, I’m not going to hurt you. Wouldn’t be worth it.” He snorted and dropped her down the other side of the dune.

She stumbled and rolled a couple times in the sand before bolting into a crouch. She swiped hair and sand from her face. By the time she looked up at the man, he had a gun pinned on her.

Her heart sputtered.

“Try to run, I shoot. And I don’t mean to kill. But you’re smarter than that, aren’t you? You’ve got nowhere to go anyway, right?”

Cress gulped. She could still hear the voices on the other side of the dune. She hadn’t been able to tell how many caravaners were still along in the group.