Page 39 of Savage Surrender

His fingers are rough against my cheek. Then Tristan climbs onto the sill, and there is no time left for anything but leaving.

He descends with his feet braced against the brick. At the bottom, he drops the remaining distance and raises both hands toward me.

“Camera’s clear. Come down. I’ll catch you.”

Sure. Because I have spent years learning survival skills so a smug blond asshole can play prince while I fall out a window.

Security lights bleach most of the lawn. The few dark strips between them look too narrow, and the woods have somehow moved farther from the house.

Owen’s palm settles on my back. “Go.”

I grip the sheet and ease over the edge. The line twists beneath me. My shoulder bangs against brick, one sneaker skids, and I slide the last few feet with all the elegance of a drunk squirrel.

Tristan catches me by the waist and lowers me into the wet grass. “Very graceful, but the view was great.”

I punch his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Weller comes down with controlled, efficient movements, because of course he makes escaping look like a military exercise. Freddie follows. The moment his shoes hit the lawn, Weller points toward the trees.

“Move.”

We run. Cold grass lashes my ankles, and mud sucks at my shoes after days of rain. Tristan runs ahead while Weller stays behind me and Freddie keeps pace at my side. My body measures every step opening between us and Owen.

I hate it. I want to go back.

A flashlight beam sweeps over the lawn and catches us.

“Hey! Stop.”

Running now gives him every excuse to fire. A man blocks the path ahead, one hand lifting his radio. His beam passes over my face, and regret pulls at his expression. Hope hits me right before his thumb finds the switch.

“Mr. Farrow.” Freddie steps forward with both hands open, his voice warm enough to make the lie feel possible. “Give us a head start. Then call it in.”

“I’m sorry, son.”

The knife is already in my palm. I turn the blade once, let it fly through the white bar of his flashlight, and bury it to the handle in the thick outer muscle of his thigh. The impact spins him half a step. Farrow cries out and folds, both hands stopping short of the handle as blood pushes dark through his uniform pants.

The sound he makes is pained.

“I’m sorry, too.” I am, a little. “Leave the knife in. It won’t kill you.”

Freddie tears off his belt and cinches it high around Farrow’s thigh. His fingers come away red when he yanks the buckle tight. Tristan takes the radio.

“We gotta go.”

A shout erupts near the east wing. Another answers closer than the first.

The woods close around us, branches raking my arms as we crash through dense shrubbage.

Freddie stumbles and lets out a choked sound. His whole body jerks before he hits his knees.

“The collar.” He claws at the metal. “Fuck, that hurts—but it’s weak.”

Weller and Tristan both fold around the same invisible blow. It lasts barely a second, but it is enough.

“We’re reaching the range limit,” Weller grinds out. He hauls Freddie upright. “Increase the distance. Run.”

“Owen.” I twist toward the pale scraps of house between the trunks. “He hasn’t come out.”