Page 60 of A Beta Protects

“Don’t do this, Bryce. Please don’t—” I scream as he grabs my hair and pulls me out of the truck.

I slam into the hard earth with a grunt. Before I can recover from the impact, he’s dragging me along.

Tears stream from my eyes, blinding me to everything except the dirt trodden ground in front of me.

The back of a silver sedan comes into view. It’s unfamiliar. So is the license plate.

Bryce shoves me into the open trunk, and I groan. My head is still ringing as he forces my legs in, then slams the lid of the trunk down, leaving me in darkness.

Terror floods my senses.

But it’s nothing compared to the panic his next words provoke.

“Till death us do part, Kira.” His footsteps move away, crunching on the hard ground as I fumble for a catch to get out of this trunk. “You might not have meant it, but I sure as hell did.”

The car vibrates when Bryce starts the engine. I jolt forward, crying out when he takes off and I slam my forehead on something I don’t see.

I don’t know where he’s taking me, but I can guess.

Somewhere remote.

Somewhere he can deal with the wife who failed him the way his mom failed his father and him. Then he will go back to Missouri to cry crocodile tears when someone eventually finds my body. If they don’t find it, he can still cry those crocodile tears for the wife who left him without a word.

He would get away with murder.

I have to get out. No one will know what happened to me or where I went. And Dom…

My eyes burn at the thought of never seeing him again. I didn’t tell him that I wanted to stay in Wylder with him, or that the person I wish I’d married was him. Not Bryce.

Bryce makes a turning and something smacks me on the side of my head.

I rub at the spot, angling to see what it was, and the bottom falls out of my stomach.

A shovel.

I bang at the trunk lid with everything I have as panic overwhelms my ability to think straight. Bryce will stop, shoot me, then bury me in the forest.

I have to get out. Now.

I grab the shovel, hoping to use it to free myself. It’s no help. With not enough room to maneuver, all it does is bounce off the sides and thump me in the head and my belly.

I bang my head, my elbow, my shoulders as I lift both legs and kick at the release instead, trying to force it open.

Desperate tears drip from my eyes and I cry out in frustration, but the trunk lid never budges.

My head pounds from the worst headache I’ve ever had. My legs ache from kicking the door. But no amount of kicking and screaming releases me from the trunk.

Finally, my strength exhausted, I lie still, my cheek on the trunk bed, tears sliding down the side of my face as I count down the seconds until I die.

Bryce makes a sharp turn, and I’m so sore I don’t even cry out when the shovel smacks me on the back of the head. I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. Twenty or thirty minutes. Maybe even longer.

Tension squeezes my throat, makes it hard to breathe as the car slows to a crawl and then stops.

I hold my breath, listening with my whole body as the engine cuts out. The door squeaks a little as it swings open. I jump when it slams shut.

And I brace myself.

I might only get one chance to get away from Bryce when he opens that trunk.

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