Page 86 of Savage Escape

She could see the fucking drop. Where the mountain ended. Where there was nothing but air.

It was ten feet away. She could do this. She could fucking do this because if she didn’t, Nathan was gonna find a pancake wearing her clothes at the bottom. Positive thinking—she could do this.

She wasn’t going to go over.

Positive thinking would work.

Weeds came up as she grappled for a grip. Plant, rocks, dirt, a whole fucking sapling—weren’t those supposed to have roots?

Fucking nature.

Five feet away.

She was not going to go over.

Her knife snagged a rock but then dislodged it right into her face. Pain splintered in her face, but she didn’t have time to register the damage.

Four feet away.

She was not going to go over.

She gripped a handful of low hanging tree branch but it broke off in her palm and she kept rolling.

Three feet away.

She was not going to go over.

A rock found her kidney. Dirt, loose fucking dirt, went through her fingers like fucking sand.

Two feet away.

She was not going to go over.

Her knife found purchase—it wedged between two huge boulders and stuck. And fucking held.

Caden came to a bone jarring halt.

She didn’t go over.

Her whole body was dangling over the ledge, but she did not go fucking over.

Tears blurred her vision. Her whole body was shaking—from terror or the beating her whole body just took, it didn’t matter. Her bloody sweaty hands shook, but she was not letting go of her goddamn knife. Holy fuck—maybe positive thinking was an actual thing and not just something Maddox pulled out of his ass. Huh.

Holden was coming in fast after her. He was tumbling end over end. His body was limp, his limbs flailing—Caden couldn’t help but cringe—he’d have lots and lots of broken bones if he wasn’t already dead.

“Holden!” Three feet away and not even grabbing for a hold. “Cliff!”

He bounced off the boulders, keeping her knife wedged and was flung over her, head first, over the edge.

Caden was ready for him, though. She shot her arm out as he was airborne and gripped his belt. She fit her whole hand under the strap and braced for the jerk of his weight. Then prayed with every fiber of her being that the knife and his buckle held.

They held.

Pain—so much fucking pain. Her palms were nothing but sweat and blood and bruises. Her muscles pulled and strained and her recently healed arm was burning. Mentally, she pushed it back and concentrated on breathing.

She could do this.

“Holden!” It was a pained groan that came out of her throat. “Wake.” Inhale. “Up.” Exhale. “Dead weight.” Inhale. “Is killing.” Exhale. “Me!”

---