Page 59 of Claimed By 3 Mountain Men

The lynx is gone. I glance up at the opening above, where a sliver of night sky is visible, but there’s no sign of the creature. Just the silent, gaping mouth of this hole, waiting to swallow me whole.

I try to stand up, but my ankle twists painfully, sending a jolt of agony up my leg.

The pain is sudden and excruciating, a sharp, searing agony that shoots up my leg and nearly blinds me with its intensity. I try to move, to scramble away from whatever is holding me, but the pain only worsens, a fiery grip that has me trapped like an animal in a snare.

I look down, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and that’s when I see it—a hunting trap, its metal jaws clamped viciously around my ankle. Blood seeps from where the jagged teeth have bitten into my flesh, staining the mud beneath me a dark, sickening red.

“Oh, God,” I whisper, my voice trembling with panic. My fingers fumble at the trap, trying desperately to pry it open, but it’s no use. The metal is cold and unyielding, biting deeper with every movement, and every frantic attempt to free myself.

Tears blur my vision, and I bite down hard on my lip, trying to keep from screaming, from giving in to the terror that’s clawing at my throat. The trap is old, and rusted in places, but it’s strong, built to hold its prey with brutal efficiency.

I can’t stay here. I know that much. I need to get out, need to find help, but the trap has me locked in place, the teeth embedded in my flesh like a cruel, unrelenting reminder of just how vulnerable I am out here.

I try to push the panic down, and focus on the task at hand—getting out of this damn trap. But every time I move, the pain flares up, hot and blinding, and I have to fight to keep from blacking out.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to breathe through the pain, and think clearly. I can’t stay here. If I do, I’ll bleed out. I’ll die here, alone, in the dark, just another victim of this savage, uncaring land. How long would it be before someone discovered me?

With a shaking hand, I reach for my belt, fumbling for the multi-tool I always carry. My fingers are slick with blood, and it’shard to get a grip, but finally, I manage to pull it free. The blade isn’t much, but it’s all I have.

I start to work at the trap, trying to wedge the blade between the teeth, to pry it open just enough to free my leg. The pain is nearly unbearable, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through me, but I push on, driven by the sheer, desperate need to survive.

But the trap is relentless, the metal cold and uncaring, and as the minutes drag on, I start to feel the edges of my vision darken, the pain and blood loss start taking their toll.

I pause, my breath coming in shallow gasps, my hands trembling with the effort. I can’t do this. I can’t get it open. The realization hits me like a blow, a cold, hard truth that leaves me desperately gasping for air.

I’m stuck here in this pit, pinned to the earth with no way out and in the middle of the woods all alone.

16

JT

Ben’s up ahead, his broad shoulders hunched against the cold, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the gloom. Hank’s a few paces behind him, muttering something under his breath as he drags a heavy chain over his shoulder.

We’ve been out here for hours, finishing up the last of the work before winter sets in. The storm earlier knocked down a few trees, and we’re here to clear the trail, make sure the equipment’s still in good shape.

It’s a hell of a night to be out here, but we’ve been out in worse. The job doesn’t wait for fair weather, and neither do we.

It feels good to get out of the lodge, away from Dad’s business ledgers and get some damn work done.

“JT, you got that chain?” Hank calls back, his voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Yeah,” I reply, hefting the metal links over my shoulder. The cold bites through my gloves, the chain heavy and unyielding. I glance up, watching the way the moonlight filters through the trees, casting long, twisted shadows across the ground.

Suddenly something catches my eye.

Footprints.

I stop in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat. They’re faint, barely visible in the moonlight, but they’re there—deep, clawed prints in the mud, leading off the trail and into the thick underbrush.

“What the hell…” I mutter, stepping closer to get a better look. Women’s boots. Fresh and sunken in, deep in the woods.

“JT? You coming or what?” Ben’s voice breaks through my thoughts, but I barely hear him.

“Hang on,” I call back. I kneel down, and run my fingers over the edges of the prints. The ground is soft, wet from the storm, and the tracks are fresh—so fresh that the mud is still settling around them.

Mac.

The woods are silent, the only sound is the distant creak of the logging equipment.

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