Checkmate

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

There is nothing quite like running free in our hellish world, as any crook can concur. The soles of my sore feet drum against the leaves with a hissing rhythm. Very few of the townspeople imagine the woods adequately; it is not a paradise of spongy green moss and a canopy of emerald leaves. It is gold and topaz, the trunks of the trees the same shade of brown as the dawn's subtle aura. Writhing over the ground is a hopeless tangle of gnarled branches, each limb spiked with treacherous thorns. Roots extend their ugly arms to grasp your boot and send you sprawling. The slope grants you only a matter of seconds to avoid any obstacles.

Like a dragonfly I race down the hillside, anger and frustration released with every leaping stride. Pent up aggression escapes with each pound of my foot, and I at last revel in my own freedom, pressing forward with even more strength. Leaves fly past my face and brambles yank at my flesh. Thorns hook into my calves. A deer bounds off, frightened by my swift rage, but I care not.

Confusion froths inside me, the bubbly fear as sharp as ice and as light as a feather spontaneously. Behind me, I can hear the hiss of leaves demonstrating Gay's tail on me, but somehow, it doesn't matter. Wind snaps angrily at my face, bringing stinging tears to my eyes.

It's highly illogical, and most likely a hormone-fueled reaction. But I cannot compel my own legs to halt, nor can I force the knowledge of my situation into my thoughts. I am make much noise in my tromp, with the rattle of leaves and the fleeing creatures before me.

Something might be listening.

A firm hand claps around my arm, pulling me to an abrupt halt. The slick leaves give me no traction to support my sudden stop, sending me sprawling. My feet give way beneath me, slipping further down the hill, and my butt aches where it crashes against the damp ground. Almost instantly, the algid dampness of the leaves penetrates the layer of fabric separating the fallen foliage from my skin. I gasp, struggling to fill my lungs with the moist air of the forest harsh to my already sore chest.

Gay pins me to the ground, his forearm pressing against my throat and his opposite hand pinning my arms above my hand. To any onlookers, the scene would've seemed extremely dirty.

His breath comes out in ragged pants. Gay's eyes are narrowed in fury. "What," he growls through gritted teeth, pressing harder against my throat, "was that?"

Defensively, I call my wits back. "Well, for starters, I was running."

Gay's eyebrows rise. His thin lips curl into an even more treacherous scowl. This is no time for sarcasm.

I shrug at him weakly, not putting my complete effort into shoving Gay off of me. The stern look he glares at me with brings back memories of my childhood, turning my resolve to stay tight-lipped into rubble. I swallow. Tears should be prickling in the corners of my eyes, and yet, they don't.

"That man," coaxes Gay gently, his tone shifting into something much more generous than what it'd rested at mere seconds before, "who was he, Omega? Your flight instinct doesn't kick off very often..."

Admittedly so. When faced with the fight-or-flight reaction, my body has been trained to assess things logically and engage in combat rather than panic and flee like a moving target. However true the facts may be, I still find myself glaring up at Gay. His weight is uncomfortable. "I run when I'm stressed," I explain shortly, channeling air through my throat still difficult because of Gay's forearm. "You know this."

Gay shifts, rolling off my nimbly. He coils into a lithe crouch, eyeing me from his position. His eyes are intelligent and wise, like a clever falcon. "It's never so sudden. There's always some sort of warning with you. A calm before the storm, or something. You're predictable like that."