The Gender Game 5 by Bella Forrest (top 5 books to read .TXT) 📗

I paused, cutting the bitter thought off. That was grossly unfair to Owen—he did know as much as me. His brother had been taken from him long ago, and he’d been fighting for him ever since. I was being too harsh toward him, resenting his optimistic nature when at another time I might have been the one offering similar words.

I shook my irritation aside, and Owen kept talking. “We are going to make it,” he emphasized, meeting my gaze for a long, unwavering second before turning back to the forest. “We did not just go through hell to get her out of there, only to have her die. Besides”—he grinned, as he turned the wheel slowly—“Violet is too stubborn to die.”

The way he delivered the statement, rough with affection and humor, managed to get a short laugh out of me. I looked down at Violet again, feeling my own heart swell with love for her. Owen was right—Violet was too stubborn to do anything she didn’t want to.

As I looked down, the woman cried out something indecipherable as she writhed in my arms. I smoothed my hands over her hair, whispering to her in low, soft tones. She settled down after a moment, turning her head slightly and exhaling in a soft sigh. I held her tightly, and then did something I hadn’t done in a long time—not since the night before Miriam’s sentence was to be carried out.

I prayed.

5

Violet

I became aware slowly, by degrees. This time it was different. There was no hush of tension or hint of urgency—nothing that justified me waking—but I woke anyway. I kept my eyes closed, remembering the pain that had usually intensified each time I had opened my eyes, and instead slowly turned my head, listening with my good ear.

I heard the sound of birds chirping, their noise joyous. I wetted my lips and sucked in a deep breath, ignoring the tightness around my ribs. I slowly lifted my eyelids.

I was lying in a bed, a worn homemade quilt pulled over me. The colors were muted, soft, and I felt a deep appreciation for that. But the bed was different than I might have expected. It was made of metal, not wood, and the mattress sagged slightly in the middle. A little pulse of alarm jolted me out of my half-slumbering state, and I took a risk, opening my eyes wider.

I had never seen this room before. It was small, cozy, with coarse wooden walls made up of slats. Framed, faded pictures hung on the walls, but my eyes slid over them as if they were coated in oil. I took a deep breath and then tried to roll over onto my side—my left side, as I distinctly remembered that something was wrong with my right arm.

As I rolled, a wave of pain and sickness swelled up in my gut, and my ribs screamed in protest. I gave up halfway through the motion, flopping back down into the blankets. Sweating, I forced my breathing to even out, taking pains to keep the panic down, in spite of protests from what seemed like every muscle in my body. I settled back on the pillows and gave myself a few moments to calm down, concentrating on simply keeping my stomach and head from exploding. Eventually, the throbbing pain and nausea subsided.

I eased myself up a little higher, using my left hand as a brace, and slipped my legs off the bed until I was in a sitting position. My arm and shoulder ached from the exertion; as soon as I was upright, I rolled my shoulder around in its socket, trying to alleviate the discomfort. Without any support, I swayed slightly and almost fell over, my hand shooting out to grab the bedframe before I toppled over. Bile rose in my throat, but my stomach felt hollow, shaky. Maybe I had run out of things to vomit up. I ignored the trembling of my limbs, the huge swamp of pain that was my ribs.

Swallowing hard, I took a few more breaths and stood up, the blanket sliding off me. I wavered, keeping my hand locked on the bedframe as the room tilted to one side. I tried to focus on an area of the wall, blinking away black spots. It helped, but I still felt woozy, my steps not landing where I wanted them to. I felt like giving up right then, but I had no idea what could happen next. If I had been kidnapped… You can do this, Violet. You have to.

I leaned heavily on the bedframe and took baby steps, examining the room more closely. It was definitely new. My heartrate increasing, I forced my eyes to check every corner for anything I could use as a weapon—and I needed to be sure that she wasn’t there. The muscled woman with the sadistic gleam in her eyes who haunted my dreams and nightmares. Panic bubbled up in my chest at the thought of being in her clutches again.

My eyes settled on a book. It wasn’t much, but if I slipped it in my pillowcase, then I could…

A sharp voice, distorted by distance and my deaf ear, caught my attention, and I paused in my scheming. There was something familiar about it. I swallowed, and slowly turned my eyes to the spot I had been carefully avoiding—the window—and the bright, shining beams of sunlight pouring in. The light blazed into my head, making me squint, but I pushed the pain back, letting my eyes adjust bit by bit. I took a cautious step toward it, then another, and another, until I had gone as far as I could without letting go of the bedframe.

Wobbling slightly, I released the bedframe and propelled myself forward. I stumbled, my equilibrium off, but managed not to fall. I reached for a desk that sat just left of the window and used