Heathcliff bore Dydra's body across his back, her limbs dangling limply as though life had already abandoned them. Her cheek rested against his shoulder, her breathing shallow, measured. To anyone watching, she was nothing more than dead weight. But behind her closed eyes, her senses were sharp—ears straining, heart pounding so violently she feared it might betray her.
Each step Heathcliff took sent a jolt through her body. Her muscles screamed to tense, to resist, yet she forced herself into stillness.
When he reached the white mare, Heathcliff slowed. He adjusted his grip and carefully lifted her, placing her limp frame atop the saddle. Her head lolled to one side, her arms hanging loose. Inside, Dydra almost laughed with triumph.
You idiot, she thought. You really believe I'm unconscious.
Heathcliff lingered a moment, watching her as if to confirm she remained unresponsive. Satisfied, he turned and walked back toward the carriage.
The moment his footsteps retreated, Dydra's eyelid trembled.
She cracked one eye open.
The clearing came into view in fragments. Two masked men moved about, busy with their tasks. Heathcliff climbed into the carriage, his attention already elsewhere. George, the taller of the two, dragged Hugh's motionless body toward the forest, grunting with effort as branches snapped beneath the weight.
No one was looking at her.
Her heart slammed harder.
In one swift motion, she straightened, seized the reins, and yanked them sharply. The mare let out a startled neigh, rearing slightly before surging forward. Hooves struck the ground in a thunderous rhythm, tearing through dirt and leaves alike.
"What—?" George spun around.
The horse bolted.
George reacted first, abandoning Hugh's body without a second glance. "I'll go after her," he barked to his partner, already moving. "Finish here."
He swung onto a black horse and kicked it into a gallop, charging after her.
Dydra leaned forward, gripping the reins tightly as the white mare tore down the narrow road. The wind whipped her hair free, stinging her eyes with tears she refused to shed. She dared a glance over her shoulder.
The black mare was gaining.
Her chest tightened as panic threatened to overwhelm her. The road stretched long and unforgiving, hemmed in by thick forest and tangled bushes. No crossroads. No shelter.
Think, she urged herself. Think.
"We'll use what we have to our advantage," she murmured, her voice nearly lost to the wind.
She veered sharply toward the forest's edge.
George saw it immediately. "Son of a b*tch," he cursed under his breath, urging his horse faster.
Branches clawed at Dydra as she plunged into the trees. There was no path—only roots, stones, and instinct. Her horse stumbled once, then steadied, charging onward with a determination that felt almost shared.
Her eyes darted desperately, scanning for anything—anything—that could save her.
Then she saw it.
A cave, partially hidden behind cascading water, its mouth obscured by shadow and moss-covered stone.
Her breath hitched.
She steered toward it.
As soon as she reached the entrance, she leapt from the saddle, nearly stumbling as her feet hit the damp ground. She grabbed the reins and urged the mare forward, guiding her carefully into the cavern. They moved silently, swallowed whole by darkness.
The cave was pitch-black. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, each echo sounding louder than it should have. Dydra pressed herself against the stone wall, her hand resting against the mare's neck, fingers trembling as she stroked soothing patterns into its coat.
Outside, the forest went quiet.
George slowed his horse, scanning the trees, listening. No hoofbeats. No movement. Only the whisper of leaves and distant water.
His lips twitched with irritation. "Son of a b*tch!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the forest and sending birds scattering into the sky.
He glanced upward, noting the deepening shadows as dusk crept in. With another curse, he turned his horse and rode back the way he'd come.
Dydra did not move.
Minutes passed. Then more.
She stayed frozen in place, barely breathing, her body coiled tight with fear. Only when her muscles began to ache did she allow herself to shift.
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.
Along the cavern walls, tiny glowing beings flickered—soft, pulsing lights like trapped stars. Her breath caught at the sight, awe momentarily overpowering fear.
Keeping one hand on the mare, she stepped deeper into the cave, each footfall careful. The horse whinnied softly, pressing closer.
"It's alright," she whispered, wrapping her arms around its neck and pulling it gently forward. They moved until she spotted a large boulder near the back of the cavern.
She lowered herself onto it, exhaustion crashing over her all at once.
The mare followed, nudging her until it rested its head against her thighs. Dydra leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to its forehead, her fingers trembling.
"You trust easily, don't you, girl?" she murmured.
She scratched behind its ears, a small smile tugging at her lips despite everything. "Do you have a name?"
The mare neighed softly.
"I'll take that as a no." She exhaled shakily. "You're quite the runner. You saved my life."
She thought for a moment. "Sprinter?" The horse tossed its head and sneezed.
Dydra huffed weakly. "No?"
Another pause. "Speed," she tried. "How about Speed?"
The mare stayed still.
She smiled. "Speed it is."
Night settled fully as the moon rose, pale light seeping into the cave and casting long, eerie shadows. The chill crept into her bones, and she rubbed her bare shoulders, teeth chattering.
She couldn't risk leaving. Not now. Not ever, if she could help it.
Tears welled unbidden as memories surfaced.
The vampire.
Her fingers brushed the bite mark on her neck, nausea twisting her stomach. Disgust burned through her veins as she recalled his gaze—hungry, invasive. Her arms wrapped around herself as sobs escaped her chest.
What would he have done…
Her stomach growled loudly, the sound echoing mockingly.
Why did I only eat a small breakfast?
The thought made her chest ache.
Thelmond mansion rose in her mind—warm halls, familiar corners. Her small room. Her bed. Her home. Tears spilled freely now as she reached for her hair, trying to smooth it, only making it worse.
Only Agatha knew how.
"Agatha…" she whispered.
Her fingers found the golden locket at her neck, clutching it like an anchor. And with Agatha came him.
Mr. Thelmond.
A vampire.
His words echoed in her mind, sharp and cruel.
Your kind needs to die. Creatures like you shouldreturn to the pitof hellyou came from.
Her chest burned.
What did he mean by creatures like you?
What was she?
Raised by love, by warmth, such hatred cut deeper than any blade. It felt like salt rubbed into an open wound.
Then another thought struck her.
The carriage.
Her memory replayed Jerry's hand around her throat. Darkness closing in.
What happened after?
How did she end up with Leonard?
What happened to Jerry?
Her breath caught.
Did Hugh… kill him?
The cave offered no answers—only shadows, silence, and the slow, terrifying promise that whatever she was… the world already hated it.