Page 16 of Sparrow

Like he’s seen something he wasn’t expecting.

Then lights come on in the main house and someone shouts, and we both start moving. I run for the patio of the cottage while Orion ducks down and grabs the man, dragging him toward the forest. I don’t have to ask what he’s doing.

If the Saints have figured out something’s wrong, the last thing we need is for them to look out and see their friend laying on the ground.

I leave him to it and race for the door of the cottage. We’ve got a free path to getting Arden out of here but only if we do it quickly. The moment the Saints know we’re here, there’s going to be trouble. I get to the door and turn the knob, but it’s locked, and that seems...

Strange.

There’s no lock on the outside, which means it’s been locked from the inside. Which means Arden locked it.

Okay, I think. Okay. That makes sense. If the kidnapper left and she wanted to make sure he didn’t come back, of course she locked the door. That just means I have to find another way into the house.

I turn and leap off the porch, racing for the first window, but when I arrive, it’s locked, and I don’t take any time wonder. I sprint for the second one–locked–and then the one around the corner. I’m just turning when I realize that my footsteps aren’t the only ones I hear.

There’s another set pounding along like someone is sprinting in time with me, and those footsteps are inside the house.

Arden is racing me from window to window, making sure they’re locked before I arrive.

I almost scream with frustration, but I stop myself just in time and remember that what she’s doing makes sense. I don’t know the whole story but she’s in the middle of the forest with some strange man, on the compound of an MC that has already been making trouble, and it doesn’t take a genius to think she’s in trouble. Probably kidnapped. Maybe trafficked.

Of course she’s trying to keep me out of the house.

She doesn’t know it’s me.

“Arden,” I say quietly.

No answer, and I keep running.

“Arden!” I say a little louder.

I hear the footsteps stutter, as if she’s been caught off-guard, and know this is my chance. I put on another burst of speed and go skidding toward the window, praying I’m at least two steps in front of her. When I get there I stop and peer through the glass, looking to the left where she should be.

And then there she is, tousled brown hair and big hazel eyes, her face too pale and her cheeks too sunken, like it’s been months since she had anything good to eat. She looks like she’s been washed and putting away wet, crumpled and damaged and frightened.

She’s the same girl I know, but her beauty’s gone from sunny and bright to something fragile and breakable.

The moment she sees me, she freezes, and then tips her head like the bird she so resembles, her bones too close to skin that’s gone translucent.

“Marshall?” she mouths.

She remembers me. Thank God.

“Open the window,” I say quickly. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Arden

There’s something wrong with my brain. Wait, maybe it’s my eyes. Maybe it’s both.

Maybe my entire nervous system has gone offline and I’m about to die, standing here in this strange cottage with the homemade bedspread and fridge full of butter and white bread.

because there’s no way on earth I’m looking at Marshall Hawke through the window.

It doesn’t make any sense. Like any sense at all. The last time I saw Marshall was at Thanksgiving in November, when he came down to our house for the week and spent time with his sister.

My stepmother.

But why in the actual fuck is he here, wherever this is? How did he get here? How did he find me?