Being on the run sucks.

No, seriously. I haven't had a shower in days, I'm running out of cash, and I've been walking for miles.

"Sucks" is an understatement.

I stand at the edge of the highway, debating if I should risk hitchhiking, or if I should start begging for bus money.

My feet ache. I've been walking for hours. I'm lost, and I have no idea where I would even find a bus this time of night.

My decision is made for me. I jam a thumb into the air and wait.

Almost immediately, a truck slows down, and I glimpse the man in the driver's seat. He smiles a gummy grin, and his front bumper is covered in stickers like "I heart boobies." I shudder.

Begging it is.

I drop my arm and turn back to the gas station, leaving my dignity on the road.

I've never been out as rural as this area. Hell, I don't even know what the nearest town is. Beside the gas station and its attached diner, there's nothing here but miles of untouched forest.

It's rural, but not far enough.

Bianca will find me here. I know she will, so I keep walking until I'm inside the warm lights of the attached diner.

There are only three people in here, which is already more than I expected. One person in a hoodie, tucked away in the corner of the diner; a thin, willowy man sitting near the door; and the only front-of-house employee who seems to be almost dozing away.

I beeline for the employee. He seems young. Maybe I can charge my phone while I beg for cash.

God, this is what I've come to, huh?

"Hi," I say, trying to conjure my sweetest smile. He stares down at me with dead eyes and says nothing. It almost falters me. If I hadn't just gone through the week that I've had, I probably would turn around and never come back.

But I've seen worse things than an unfriendly waiter this week, so I swallow my pride, and keep smiling.

"Any idea where the nearest bus stop is?" I ask.

He shrugs wordlessly. Great. This was a bad start.

"Well, do you mind if I charge my phone?" I hold up my dead phone as if to prove a point.

"That's against restaurant policy," he says, his voice as dead as his expression. I sigh.

"Look," I say, slapping a hand down on the counter. "Can I borrow a few bucks? Anything will help."

He stares at me with those hollow eyes and stamps out the last remaining sparks of hope within me. "Are you going to order something, or am I going to have to call the cops?"

I hesitate. It's warm in here and I'd love to snuggle up in a cushioned booth until sunrise, but I only have a few dollars left. It's not worth it, I decide, but before I can say anything, a voice interrupts.

"She's with me."

I jump, turning to find the person in the hoodie standing a foot away. Now that he's standing, I can see just how he towers over me. He must be a hockey player or a football player, judging by his height and the broadness of his shoulders.

The first thing that hits me is his scent. Not cologne, but something more organic, something earthy. He smells like he's bathed in pine needles, and— something else I can't put my finger on. Whatever it is, I want to lean closer. I want to bottle it and drink it.

Even more, I want to see him better.

His hoodie is pulled just over his brow, shadowing his features, but I can see the sharpness of his eyes as they train on me. A bright blue, like I've never seen before. His stare doesn't waver, even as I meet his eye—almost like a challenge of sorts.

A shiver runs down my spine. I should be afraid—I know exactly what type of men spend their nights in diners like these, talking to disheveled girls like me—but I'm not. Something in me wants to move closer, rather than farther. I almost want him to protect me from this cold-hearted waiter.

"Whatever, man," the employee says. He's clearly given up caring.

The man in the hoodie's eyes remain on me, something that should make me want to run for the hills right now, yet I can't stop looking at him. I want to step forward, reach up, pull that hoodie down—

"You alright?" the man asks. His voice is deep. So deep, it stirs something inside of me, almost pulling me into a trance. All I can hear is the reverberation of his voice. All I can see are his sharp eyes and that cutting jawline. I wish he'd step into the light and his hoodie would fall—I want to see more.

The man lifts a brow and I blink.

"Sorry?" I ask.

"I said, are you alright?"

I frown, still dazed by this bulldozer of a man. Why is he asking if I'm alright? But then I remember I was just begging for cash—not to mention how awful I must look right now.

I have the sudden urge to push my fingers through my hair, but I know it won't be any help. Instead, I force a nod.

"Fine," I say. "You wouldn't happen to have a phone charger, would you?"

He shakes his head. "No phone charger, but I've got pancakes coming. Are you hungry? I think my eyes were bigger than my stomach when I was ordering."

I'm about to nod and follow this stranger to his corner booth, when the alarm bells finally hit. What am I doing? I've turned down meals from graying old ladies, and now I'm about to follow this straight-out-of-Marvel man into a dark corner of an isolated diner?

My body seems to be acting on its own as I move to take a step towards him. I come to my senses and pause.

"No," I choke out, shaking my head. "No, I'm actually—my dad's waiting for me outside. I'd better go."

His eyes stay sharp on me, like he can see right through me. I tear my gaze away and frown at the ground, willing my legs to start moving. In my periphery, I see his fingers twitch, then dig into his pocket, pulling out a phone.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "If you need to make a call, you can borrow my phone."

I stare at him, considering his offer, then ask, "Can I look something up instead?"

"Of course," he says, nodding towards his corner booth. I swallow hard, puffing my chest as I follow his lead.

He sits first and I slide into the opposite seat, staying close to the edge in case I need to make a run for it.

"Here," he says, passing me his unlocked phone.

Our fingers brush and my pulse quickens. Somehow, just that one touch set my nerves alight. He pulls back and I warm, realizing I've frozen into place.

"Thanks," I mutter. I take it and look up the nearest bus station's timetable. Immediately, all hope is lost. There won't be another bus for six hours.

Great.

"Bad news?" the man asks.

I blink. I forgot he was there for a moment. I shake my head, returning his phone to him.

"Everything's fine," I say. "Just—some traffic nearby. My dad will be a little late."

His eyes narrow again, scrutinizing me, and I will myself not to look away. Here, in the booth, I can see his face a little better under his hoodie.

I note his sharp cheekbones and the smooth slope of his nose. His eyelashes are thick and frame large eyes that study me closely.

"Pancakes," a voice says, interrupting our mini standoff. The waiter, still looking bored as ever, drops a plate of pancakes smothered in syrup onto the table.

My stomach lets out an involuntary growl and my face turns hot. Could this night get any worse?

"More time for pancakes then," the man says, pushing the plate closer to me.

"Oh, I'm fine, really," I say. "I'm not hungry."

He lifts one brow, then slides the plate even closer.

"Eat," he commands.

I pause. Usually, being told what to do is a surefire way to piss me off, but there's something about this man. Something that makes me trust him.

Slowly, I pick up the cutlery and start cutting into the pancakes. The first bite feels like heaven, and I have to fight not to show it on my face. I don't want to give him the satisfaction.

I'm three bites in when his phone rings.

He frowns at his phone screen for a moment, then stands from his seat.

"I'll be right back," he says. "Keep eating, okay?"

He doesn't have to tell me twice. I shove another bite into my mouth, grateful to finally have hot food on a plate. I glance at him. He shrinks against the opposite wall, his phone pressed against his ear.

He glances in my direction and murmurs frantically. My stomach sinks. It's almost like... he's talking about me.

No. I'm being paranoid. Still, I put my fork and knife down and try to hear his words. He glances at me again, and I swear I hear, "She's all alone. I can't leave her."

The pancakes turn in my stomach. I sway for a moment, my mind conjuring images of who this guy could be talking to.

What was I thinking? His arms are the size of my head. No normal guy is sitting alone in a diner, a hoodie drawn over his face, in the middle of the night.

And yet—his eyes. There's something about them that draws me in, silencing the screaming alarm bells in my head. If I wait for him to come back, I'm not sure I'll be able to keep my walls up for much longer.

I take a breath, steeling my nerves. He's not looking in my direction when I slip past him and out the door.

I bolt out into the cold wind, doing my best not to turn around. The air hits my face and I scoff out loud.

What am I thinking? I see one hot guy in a dingy diner, and I want to spend the night with him? God, Clover. Have some sense of urgency.

My first priority should be getting the hell out of here and finding an actual safe space to spend the night. Somewhere with locked doors, hopefully.

I glance around the flickering lights of the gas station. Still empty. I have no choice but to wait until morning.

Except, a second later, a bell sounds from behind me. I turn. The thin man who had been sitting by the door steps out behind me. I slink against the wall, hoping he'll pass right by, but of course, he doesn't.

"'Scuse me," he says, his voice raspy and nothing like that hooded man earlier. He moves in an almost uncanny sort of way, hands buried in his pockets.

I step back instinctively. A bad move, because now he's blocking the entrance to the diner and the gas station. I have nowhere else to go.

"Yes?" I reply.

"Is your name Clover Davis?" he asks. I narrow my eyes. The fact that this man in the middle of nowhere knows my name sends my pulse skyrocketing.

"No," I say, instinctively.

"Really? Because you sure look like her," he says, lifting one hand out of his pocket. In it, he holds a crumpled picture of me taken years ago, back in my freshman year of high school.

It feels like a lifetime ago—Before I met Bianca and her nauseating daughters. Before all of those lawyers came in their fancy suits and read out my dad's will—read out my name instead of hers. Before I left home.

Now I'm really freaking out.

"I have one of those faces," I try. He doesn't look convinced. His eyes dart towards a car I hadn't noticed was parked nearby.

I swallow. He's blocking the diner, and the employee just Won't. Look. Up. That's the second time he's been unhelpful tonight. And where is that hooded man? He seems to have vanished from the restaurant.

"Now, don't make this any harder for me," he says. "I'm just here for a happy family reunion."

"Bianca sent you," I say, the realization hitting me.

"Her husband sure has some deep pockets," the man remarks.

Richard. Not deep enough, apparently, if they're still trying to get their hands on me.

"You don't have to do this," I say slowly. "Just let me go. I won't tell—"

Before I finish my sentence, his other hand is out of his pocket. A glint of moonlight shines off the knife in his hand. The words die in my throat.

As if my week couldn't get any worse.

He takes another step forward.

"You're coming with me whether you like it or not," he threatens. "Are you going to play nice, or not?"

Not, I decide.

"Holy shit!" I shout, pointing at the diner.

His eyes widen and he turns as I take off in the other direction.

Honestly, I can't believe it worked.

He curses behind me and begins to chase. I run faster, passing the verge of pavement to find myself in the thick tangle of forest.

"Get back here!" the man shouts.

I keep running.

It's dark in here without the neon reflection of the gas station lights. I can't see where I'm stepping, but I can only hope the path is clear. Behind me, the footsteps grow closer. He's faster than I am.

All I can think about is that knife in his hand. I need to keep running.

Suddenly, the trees clear and I find myself without cover.

Moonlight floods the clearing without the shade of trees. It bathes my skin completely and I blink as my eyes adjust. It's a full moon tonight.

The man's footsteps grow closer. My eyes dart across the clearing—searching for an escape; a plan—but there's nowhere to hide.

I search the ground for something, anything—a stick, a rock, some kind of weapon—but there's nothing.

Nothing but moonlight and dewy grass.

This will be the end of me.

I almost give up. Almost sink to my knees, but then—

Was that a howl?

Frowning, I pivot to find—holy shit.

A wolf stands in front of me.

A real wolf with a white coat and eyes a bright blue against the dark of the night.

I've seen wolves on TV before, but here, in person—it's huge. And its teeth—it could tear me apart in seconds if it wanted to.

And with the way it's looking at me, I'm starting to think it will.

I know wolves travel in packs. I'm sure I've heard that somewhere, and yet, I can't bring myself to search the rest of the clearing. I don't dare to move.

The wolf's eyes stay on me. I can't tell what it's thinking, but its eyes... they almost hold emotion. They almost look human.

The moonlight reflects off its coat, turning its fur a brighter white, almost white as snow. I'm tempted to reach out. To touch it.

It's almost like I'm dreaming when my hand lifts on its own accord and the wolf's head tilts, its ear brushing the tip of my finger.

I gasp at the feeling. My chest burns. My whole body aches to move closer. I want to touch it properly and flatten my hand against its mane. I want to—

"What the—" the man's voice echoes as he enters the clearing.

We lock eyes. His knife is still gripped tightly in his hand. He steps back and the wolf's head whips around.

I watch as the man's throat bobs uselessly. He spins, about to sprint back into the forest, but the wolf is faster.

It leaps forward in one swift movement, teeth baring.

The man makes one last-ditch attempt at defense, flinging his knife towards the wolf, but he's too late.

The wolf's teeth trap the man's arm in an ivory cage, and he screams so gutturally that I feel my bones rattle.

And his knife—it cuts through the air.

I watch it, paralyzed in fear as it buries itself in my chest with a sickening crunch. I think I mutter a cry and then I feel myself falling.

Hot blood pours from the wound, covering my stomach, and yet I'm cold. So cold. Goosebumps rise on my skin.

My hands—my stupid hands. So weak. I try to hold my chest, but they slip uselessly off the thick blood. I can't even staunch the wound. I can't grip the knife. I can't do anything but fall.

And as I fall, I see the wolf. I see its eyes on me. The moon above it. The stars winking at me.

And then I blink and the silhouette of the wolf changes, morphs, and suddenly I think I see a man. Not the would-be-thief, no. He's still screaming from the edge of the clearing, the sound growing more and more distant.

This man is different. The moon silhouettes him. For a moment, I think it's my dad, coming to welcome me into the afterlife.

But then I see his eyes. Blue and sharp, and so familiar. I smell his earthy scent, and I realize it's the man from the diner.

I hear a thud as he drops to his knees. There's yelling. More footsteps. His hands are under my shoulders and knees, and I'm lifted into the sky.

I feel his chest knock against my arm and that warmth fills me again. I move closer, trying to savor that feeling. But my stomach is starting to hurt, and it's so difficult to keep my eyes open. Instead, I lean closer to the man's chest and think of that wolf with the blue eyes.

My eyes start to drift shut, and as I start to lose consciousness, I feel his thick arms hold me tighter. I hear his deep voice in my ear, and it almost works—almost.

"Stay with me."

And I let myself collapse into his chest.