Page 41 of The Fire Went Wild

He’s still alive.

I can’t think about that right now. I was panicked; I must have imagined seeing his blank eyes. He probably only passed out just long enough for me to escape. Maybe he was stalking me this whole time and only got interrupted by those two men?—

Whoever the hell they were.Dennis Randall, they said, which sounds familiar. A name I’ve heard before. I can’t place it right now, though. I just need to get to the road.

And then I hear something. An echo of my footsteps.

I freeze, trying desperately to still my panicked breaths. They sound as loud as a hurricane.

Silence. Or at least as much silence as a swamp can muster, even in the middle of a winter.

I take one hesitant step backward, moving slow as molasses and still managing to step on something that snaps in the dark. I freeze, my body tense with anxiety.

“Charlotte.”

It’s him. Jaxon. He says my name like he’s caught me doing something I shouldn’t.

“Charlotte, you can’t run through the marsh at night.”

Footsteps echo between the trees. Every now and then, there’s a rustle of leaves, a splash of watery mud. I back up, two quick steps, and slam against the wide, smooth trunk of a tree. I can barely see anything. Just shadows braiding through more shadows.

“You’re just going to get lost out here.” His voice rises and falls with the damp wind. “I know it a lot better than you do.”

He’s close. I can sense him crashing through the underbrush, not even trying to hide his approach.

Well, then I won’t hide my escape.

I take off running, plunging into the darkness, my head ducked to avoid the attacks from all the plants that call this place home. Behind me, Jaxon curses.

Then he’s running too.

“Fuck,” I whisper, pumping my legs to go faster. It’s not easy. I’m not much of a runner to begin with and running in a muddy marsh isn't exactly something you can train for in San Jose. I claw away the vines and palm leaves and splash through the thick, squelching mud. A branch slaps at my arms like a cypress tree is trying to catch me on Jaxon’s behalf.

“Charlotte!” he shouts. He’s close. I swear I him breathing. Or maybe it’s my own panting breath. “You’re going to fucking hurt yourself.”

“What do you care?”

He laughs, cold and cruel. A killer’s laugh.

I veer sideways and run straight into some kind of tangled bramble, shrieking as the thorns slash through my bare skin and stick like Velcro to my dress’s fabric. I flail my way through, tiger stripes of pain all over my arms and legs, only to step into a black puddle of water?—

And fall.

I hit the puddle with a splash, and filthy, muddy water soaks my hair and dress. Jaxon’s footsteps loom closer. The motherfucker doesn’t even sound like he’s running.

“You okay?” he calls out.

“Fuck you!” I try to stand up, but the bottom of the puddle is slick with mud and loose rocks, and I lose purchase and fall sideways?—

Right into Jaxon’s arms.

“Got you,” he whispers into my ear, and it doesn’t sound like a threat.

Not exactly.

“Let me go!” I squirm against him, but he just tightens his grip around my waist, his big arms impossibly strong. And covered in something wet and warm and sticky that’s definitelynotmud.

“I don’t think so.” He hauls me out of the water and presses me up against a nearby tree, close enough that I can see him even in the dark. His hair is loose, hanging in sweat-damp strands around his face, which is splattered with gore. He reaches up and brushes my wet hair out of my eyes, and his hands are black with blood. It streaks across my cheek.

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