Page 290 of Unexpected Hero

It is him.

I know it without a doubt.

My mind would never be this cruel to me. James came for me.

I shake and push at the wooden panel door, desperate to get to him before he vanishes. Or before I wake up.

If this is a dream, at least I’ll have one minute with him before it ends.

The door sticks at first. I try again and am rewarded when it flops open, falling to the closet floor.

Heart pounding, I crawl from the dark space on my hands and knees. I stumble as I attempt to stand but catch myself.

I listen from the doorway. Renewed fear that I’m about to be jumped freezes me in place.

My knees tremble, and my heart pounds.

“Violet!” he bellows in anguish.

My legs propel me toward him, one foot in front of the other, faster and faster. I need to comfort him. To wipe the misery from his voice.

Instinctively, my arms wrap around my waist. I pause at the end of the hallway, peeking timidly into the living room.

Men with dark ski masks and military-type gear are scattered around. The vile creatures who’ve violated, beat, and tormented us are restrained on the floor. Girls are huddled in the corners of the room, clinging together. Some of them are even smiling.

Actually smiling.

But I don’t see James.

He was the one who led me out of that hole with his voice and pained cries.

Perhaps he wasn’t real. I fabricated his voice so I could find the courage to come out. To be rescued.

Even if he’s not here, he saved me.

“James?” I quaver, my hopeful eyes searching the room for a sign of him.

“Lettie,” he answers, relief woven into the two syllables.

It’s him. He’s real.

I can’t see his face or his hair. But I’d know him anywhere.

Standing on the other side of the living room, he pulls off his mask and eats up the space between us. I only have time to take one step before he slams into me. The pain in my chest from my ribs barely registers as he holds me tightly to him.

Relief unlike I’ve ever known washes over me, cascading in crashing waves over my skin. Cuts, welts, and bruises be damned.

“I got you, sugar bear. I got you.” He strokes my hair with one hand, keeping his other hand nestled around my back to hold me near. “I got you. I got you,” he mutters on repeat.

Despite my failing strength, I cling tighter to him. “James, oh my god,” I sob into his chest. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. How did you find me?”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t find you sooner, sugar bear. So damn sorry. I tried to find you faster.” His words falter, breath hitching.

I can’t stand the pain and self-censure in his tone.

No more guilt for things that aren’t within our control.

I look up at him, still struggling to believe he’s not a figment of my imagination.

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