Page 5 of Forgotten Vows

He's going to kill him. He's going to torture him and kill him, and it's my fault.

I should have been more careful. I should have waited, should have known my father would notice I was gone, should have?—

Should have, should have, should have.

It doesn't matter now.

I try the door every few minutes, knowing it's locked but unable to stop myself. I bang on it until my fists hurt, screaming for someone to let me out, to tell me what's happening, but no one comes.

The house grows quiet as the party winds down. I hear cars leaving, voices fading, until there's nothing but silence pressing in from all sides.

I sink onto my bed, pulling my knees to my chest, and then I notice the blood—just a little, on my inner thighs, dried now and flaking. Evidence of what we did, of what I gave him freely, that he's now dying for.

I have to get to him.

The thought crystallizes, and suddenly it's the only thing in my head. I have to get to him. Have to see him, talk to him, tell him I'm sorry, tell him I love him, tell him?—

Tell him goodbye.

I move to my window, testing it. I've snuck out this way before, but never under such duress, and never when there's probably securityspecifically told to make sure I don't leave the house. It takes me three tries, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip the latch, but finally it gives. The window slides open with a soft scrape that sounds deafening in the quiet.

I don't let myself think. If I think, I'll lose my nerve.

I climb out onto the ledge, my bare feet scraping on the rough stone. It's a longer drop than I remember, and I land hard, my ankle twisting. Pain shoots up my leg, but I bite down on my lip and force myself to move.

The estate is dark. Most of the lights are off, the guards doing their rounds on the perimeter. I know their patterns—I've lived here my whole life. I know where the cameras are and their blind spots, how to move through the shadows without being seen.

I make my way toward the outbuildings, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. There are three buildings back here—storage, mostly, and one that my father uses for... other things. Things I'm not supposed to know about. That's where they'll have taken him.

The door is unlocked, which sends a jolt of fear through me—either Lachlan is dead or so incapacitated they aren't worried about him running… or maybe he's just tied up. I cling to that last hope as I slip inside, and the smell of copper and sweat and dirt hits me.

"Lachlan?" My voice comes out as a whisper. "Lachlan, are you here?"

There's a soft, pained sound. I follow it deeper into the building, past empty closets and storage crates, until I find him.

Oh God.

He's on the floor, his back against the wall, and there's so much blood. His face is swollen, one eye nearly shut, his lip split in multiple places. His shirt is gone, and I can see the bruises blooming across his ribs in swathes of dark purple and black. One of his hands is bent at a wrong angle.

"Lachlan." I drop to my knees beside him, my hands hovering over him, afraid to touch and hurt him more. "Oh God, Lachlan, what did they do to you?"

His good eye opens, focusing on me with difficulty. For a secondhe just stares, like he can't quite believe I'm real. "Adriana?" His voice is rough, barely more than a rasp. "What... what are you doing here?"

"I came to get you out." I'm already looking around, trying to figure out how to move him, where to take him. "Can you stand? We need to?—"

"No." He tries to shake his head and winces. "No, you need to go. If they find you here?—"

"I don't care." I look around for something to cut the zip ties on his wrists and ankles, and eventually find a toolbox and something with a sharp edge. He groans with pain as I saw at the zip tie around his wrists, jostling his broken hand, but when it snaps free, he lets out a breath of relief.

When he's freed, I slide my arm under his shoulders, trying to help him up. He's so much heavier than I expected—solid muscle and dead weight. "Come on. We're leaving. Together. Like we planned."

"Adriana—"

"We'll go upstate. We'll find a way to get into Canada. Or we can go hide somewhere in the Midwest. Or—or anywhere. Somewhere far away where my father can't find us. We'll change our names, we'll?—"

"Stop." His hand—the one that isn't broken—catches my wrist. "Stop, please. You can't... you can't come with me."

"Yes, I can. We can?—"