Their Mountain Captive by Kayla Wren

19

Angelo

The man finds me sprawled on the river bank, laid out like a feast for passing bears. I watch him approach through cracked eyelids, and even that tiny movement sends sledgehammers pounding at my brain.

My body. My bones. I’ve been pulverized. River water has scoured me inside and out; has beaten every single part of me.

I cough, my ribs searing with pain.

This did not go to plan.

I’ve never been so fully at someone’s mercy before. Unable to move, unable to speak, even to blink. I watch the man as his boots draw level with my face; as he kneels and touches his knuckles to my throat.

My thready pulse leaps at his touch. As if whatever life is left in me is screaming for him. Help me.

“Huh.” The man shifts his weight, pulling something from his pocket. Distantly, I hear him make a call. Tell the person on the other end of the phone about the guy by the river. The man who’s nearly dead.

That’s me, I think stupidly, but my tongue is too swollen to speak. I lie there as my freezing, soaked clothes cling to my skin, the mountain breeze chilling me down to my marrow.

The man pushes to his feet with a grunt, towering over me. Blocking out the sun. Then something settles over me—something warm and heavy.

A jacket.

It smells like cedar and rain.

Thank you.That’s what I want to say—a phrase that has barely passed my lips since childhood. Marinos don’t say thank you, don’t show any sign of weakness, but it’s too late for that, right? I’ve never been weaker than I am in this moment. My father would disown me on the spot. He’d kick me back into the rushing water.

“Hold tight,” the man rumbles, and his voice is as deep as the mountain caves. I shift on the riverbed, then still as agony tears through me.

I can’t see his face. His features are dark, the sun shining behind him and casting him in shadow, but I stare at that dark patch like if I blink I’ll die.

A savior.

I’ve never been saved before.