Page 50 of Untamed Hunter Daddy

Zoe

They take me from the hospital.

The hospital in Bridger, where Ryker was taken after Kane pried the truck door open and freed his arm. The radius and the ulna, broken clean in two places. The ER doctor said it would heal if he kept the cast dry and didn’t do anything stupid. Ryker looked at him like stupidity was not only likely but already scheduled.

I was in the waiting room. Kane sat beside me for four hours, phone in hand, eyes on the door, that deep-water stillness that means he’s fully operational even when he looks like he’s resting.

Then his phone rang. Mason. Urgent. Something about the flash drive data yielding a location that needed immediate verification. Kane looked at me, at the nurses’ station with its three staff and one security guard, at the empty well-lit parking lot through the glass. He made the calculation federal officers make every day.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’m going to the parking lot. I’ll be within sight of the door the whole time. Don’t move. Don’t go outside. If anything feels wrong, scream.”

He was gone for three minutes. I counted.

They came from inside the hospital. Not through the front door where Kane could see. Through the service corridor behind the nurses’ station that connects to the loading dock. Two men in scrubs. They moved like orderlies. One of them stopped beside my chair and said, “Ms. Parker? Dr. Engel is ready for you. She’s in examination room seven.”

The lie was so ordinary I almost stood up.

Then the wrong things registered. Dr. Engel isn’t at this hospital. She’s at the regional office. His scrubs had no hospital badge. And when he reached for my arm, there was grease under his fingernails.

Mechanic’s hands. Ridge Auto hands.

I opened my mouth to scream. His hand covered it before the sound formed. The other man gripped my arm and they moved fast through the service corridor. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead at the same buzzing frequency as the bulb at the mine. My body recognized the feeling before my mind caught up. The specific physics of two men moving a woman through a space she doesn’t want to be in.

I fought. Twisted. Kicked. Bit the hand covering my mouth hard enough to taste blood that wasn’t mine. He jerked away for half a second and I screamed once. High and sharp. It wasn’t enough. The corridor was empty. The loading dock was empty. A van idled outside with the rear doors open.

They put me in. The doors closed. The light disappeared. Zip ties tightened around my wrists.

The despair comes for me like an old friend who knows the address.

You’re back. None of it mattered. Not the running, not the mountains, not the cabin, not the man. The escape was temporary and the dark is the only place that was ever real.

It’s the voice of the woman who stayed in Tyler’s cabin for days after she knew the bears were a lie.

That woman wants me to lie down and let the zip ties win.

I don’t.

The new Zoe is louder. Not by much. But louder. Measured in the width of a flash drive and the heat of a butterfly closure and the sound of a man saying “I’ll remember” after I told him about a birthday cake I ate alone.

I count the turns. Left after about three minutes on a straight road. Then right. Then left again after a longer stretch. Six minutes, two minutes, four minutes. Generally south and west. Alpha Range. Tyler.

The zip ties are plastic and in front of my body, not behind. A mistake made in a hurry. Ryker showed me how to break them once, during a conversation I thought was theoretical. Raise the arms, bring them down hard while pulling the wrists apart, concentrate the force on the ratchet.

I don’t break them yet. Breaking them now trades one problem for three. Smart means waiting for the moment when freedom has somewhere to go.

Instead I work the ratchet with my teeth, loosening it one click at a time until I can rotate my wrists inside the loop.

The van slows. Gravel under the tires. We’ve left the highway.

It stops. The engine cuts and the rear doors swing open. Harsh industrial light floods in. Corrugated metal walls. A loading dock. A gravel yard. A warehouse at the edge of some small town, the kind of anonymous place designed to hold things people don’t want in their houses.

Now it holds women.

They pull me out. My feet hit gravel as cold air slaps my face.

Tyler is standing on the loading dock.

He looks the same. Clean jaw under the new beard. White teeth. The posture of a man who’s been waiting and isn’t in a hurry because he planted the seed and never doubted the yield.