Chapter 5 - THE CABIN IN THE WOODS
The iron elevator clattered to a stop in the cavernous underground garage.
Adrian stumbled as the doors slid open.
I hooked my arm under his uninjured shoulder, taking as much of his weight as I could.
He was six-foot-three and built of solid muscle.
My knees buckled, but I refused to let him hit the concrete.
"The black truck," he breathed, nodding toward an unmarked Ford Raptor in the corner.
"Key is in the ignition."
I dragged him to the passenger side, shoved him in, and slammed the door.
I vaulted into the driver's seat.
My hands were covered in his blood.
I hit the push-to-start button.
The heavy V8 engine roared to life with a deep, menacing growl.
I slammed the shifter into reverse, spun the wheel, and gunned the accelerator.
The garage door was already closing on an emergency lockdown timer.
"Don't slow down," Adrian growled from the passenger seat, his eyes half-closed.
I floored the pedal.
The front steel bumper smashed through the reinforced aluminum gate, sending sparks flying into the night.
We burst onto the dark, winding private road winding through the eleven-acre estate.
Behind us, Vale House was bathed in flashing red emergency lights.
"Take Route 32 north," Adrian ordered weakly.
His head rested against the window glass.
"Toward the Poconos."
I drove like a woman possessed.
The speedometer climbed past eighty, ninety, a hundred miles per hour.
Rain began to fall, drumming furiously against the windshield.
Two hours later, the highway gave way to dirt roads and towering pine trees.
We reached a small, rustic cabin built of rough river stone, completely hidden by hemlocks.
I cut the headlights.
Silence swallowed us, broken only by the rhythm of the storm.
I turned to Adrian.
His skin was ashen, slick with cold sweat.
"Adrian. Look at me."
His dark eyes fluttered open slowly.
"Still here," he whispered.
I got him out of the truck and up the wooden porch steps.
Inside, the cabin was cold and dark.
I laid him flat on the leather sofa near the hearth.
I found a kerosene lamp and matches on the mantel.
The yellow flame illuminated the wound on his shoulder.
The bullet had passed clean through his deltoid, but the bleeding wouldn't stop.
I found a first-aid kit under the sink, along with a bottle of uncut rye whiskey.
My hands shook, but I forced my breathing to slow down.
I had dressed kitchen burns and stitched deep cuts on the estate for years.
"This is going to hurt," I warned him.
Adrian reached up with his good hand and gripped my forearm.
His fingers were burning hot with fever.
"Do it, Nora."
I poured the whiskey over the wound.
Adrian's back arched off the sofa.
His teeth clicked together, grinding in agony, but not a single cry escaped his lips.
I threaded the surgical needle with steady fingers.
One stitch. Two. Three.
My hair fell loose from its knot, brushing his bare collarbone as I worked.
With every pull of the thread, his pulse fluttered under my fingertips.
He watched my face through heavy eyelids.
"You don't flinch," he murmured.
"My father taught me to finish what I start," I said, knotting the thread and cutting it with scissors.
I pressed a clean gauze pad against his shoulder.
Adrian’s hand slid from my arm up to my jawline.
His thumb wiped a streak of his blood from my cheek.
The touch sent an electric shock straight through my chest.
"You should have run, Nora."
"You wouldn't have survived the night," I countered, looking straight into his eyes.
"Why do you care if a monster lives?"
"Because you're not the monster they think you are."
His eyes softened, just for a fraction of a second.
Then a loud snap echoed outside the cabin window.
A branch breaking under a heavy boot.
May you like
Adrian's eyes snapped wide open.
His hand reached instantly for the gun beside the sofa.
