“No, you’re not…” I say, sneering. “You like this.”

His brows raise up slightly and his smirk only deepens. “You’re right.” He forces my head away, reaching for the handle and shoving it open. “I do like it.”

I fall from the SUV and land on the dirt, where stones cut into the palms of my hands and blood fills my mouth.

I cough, sucking in deep breaths and rolling to my back. My chest tightens and I look up at the sky from blurry eyes. The sun doesn’t bother to hide behind a cloud. It beams down on me, laughing, like I got myself into whatever this situation is. A shadow clouds my face and everything goes black.

My wrists prickle with pain, and I slowly try to twist them around as spasms zap through my head.

Wicked. Pushing me out of the car. Stealing me. Oh my God.

My eyes pop open and I shoot to my feet. It’s cold. So cold that goose bumps litter my exposed legs. There’s a perfectly manicured bush in front of me, and I turn around to see an identical one opposite. Left and right, I’m boxed in by a cube of dense but flawlessly manicured hedges. Dirt mushes between my toes as I make my way to the other end, swiping the blood from the side of my face. I walk around the corner, to where it continues around like a maze. Running to the end, I hit another corner and spin back around to see where I came from. The sun that was rising this morning behind Wicked is now setting in the sky, and the pain around my wrists and head intensifies the farther I walk.

Falling down to the ground, I wrap my arms around my legs, forcing them to my chest and resting my cheek on my knees. Why? Why is this happening, and what did I do to him for him to do this?

Closing my eyes, I rock silently back and forward, counting down from one hundred.

Ninety-nine

Ninety-eight

Ninety-seven

My eyes pop open when I hear a crack from somewhere deep in the maze. Shooting to my feet, I run through the way I came, passing hedge after hedge. I keep running, following an unknown path as my chest burns and my eyes sting with tears. My mind spins around and the hedges that were stationary start merging together to form colors around me. Warped together like a haze of smoke, I trip backward and lose my footing, everything going black.

Chapter Eight

I sit on the bench seat at the front of the chapel, my knee jiggling and the familiar mask clasped in my hand. The half human bone mask is littered with markings, and I trace the indentation of carvings over the years. Line after line cut into it. I lose count toward the end. One. Two. Three. Four. Strike. And repeat.