Page 2 of Taken in the Tree Farm
"Run, sugarplum."
The words cut through the icy night, making my lips part as my jaw drops.
He continues. "Let's see how far you can get before I catch you."
Fear explodes into adrenaline. I don't give myself time to think, and I definitely don't question him. Irun.
My soaked slippers slip on snow and ice, but I push forward into the maze of Christmas trees. The lights blur past me in streaks of color. Branches catch at my tulle skirt, snagging the delicate fabric while cold air burns my lungs with every gasping breath.
Behind me, I hear him laugh.
The sound shouldn't be sexy. It should be horrifying—and itis—but there's something about the timber of his voice, the confidence in that dark chuckle, that sends an unwanted shiver down my spine.
And I hate that the shiver has nothing to do with how cold it is outside. What the hell is wrong with me?
I veer left, following a path marked by candy cane stakes. The eerie music follows me, or maybe it's playing from multiple speakers throughout the farm. The slowed-down waltz creates a nightmare soundtrack, each note echoing in my skull.
I risk a glance over my shoulder.
Nothing but shadows and twinkling lights. But I can still hear him. His boots on the snow. Steady. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.
Because he does, doesn't he? We're in the middle of nowhere. There's no one here to help me. No cars, no houses visible beyond the trees, nothing but this magically terrifying winter landscape.
My bound hands make running difficult. I pump my arms, but the velvet rope restricts my movement, throwing off my balance. I nearly trip over an exposed root hidden beneath the snow and barely catch myself.
The path curves right, taking me deeper into the farm. The trees grow denser here, their branches heavy with snow. Lights wind through every trunk, every branch, creating a disorienting effect. Shadows dance and shift with the sway of the trees.
I duck beneath an archway made of candy canes—massive things, taller than me, twisted together to form a tunnel. Red and white stripes glow from within, backlit like they're made of colored glass. It's stunning. Artistic. Someone put a hell of a lot of thought into this design.
And that’s when realization dawns on me. He knows every path, every hiding spot, every dead end.
And I know nothing.
Panic threatens to overwhelm me, but I shove it down. I can't afford to freeze. I have to keep moving, have to find a way out, I have to?—
"I can hear you breathing, sugarplum."
His voice is closer now. So much closer.
I bite back a yelp and sprint forward, abandoning the path for the spaces between trees. Snow falls faster here, thick flakes that cling to my eyelashes and costume. My legs burn from the cold, the fishnets doing absolutely nothing to protect my skin. The rhinestones on my dress catch every stray beam of light, probably making me easily visible from fifty yards away.
I'm a walking beacon. A perfectly wrapped present just begging to be caught.
Heat pools low in my belly as I wait for his low voice again, and I hate myself for it.
I need to hide.
Ahead, through the curtain of snow and lights, I spot a gingerbread house. Not a decoration—a full-sized building made to look like one. Brown walls with white icing details, gumdrop accents the size of basketballs, a roof that looks frosted. Lights outline every edge.
It's absurd and right now, it's my only option.
I stumble around the side and press myself against the wall. The surface is cold painted wood textured to look like gingerbread. My heart pounds so hard I swear he must be able to hear it.
I strain to listen past the blood rushing in my ears, past the distorted music. For a moment, there's nothing. Just the soft whisper of falling snow and my own labored breathing.
Then—footsteps.
Slow and deliberate, coming from somewhere to my left.
