Maeve’s hair on the back of her neck stood straight up.
A twig snapped and Maeve sprinted the other way.
Her shoes skittered on the dirt floor, branches shrieking as the figure leaped, chasing her from above. Forcing her legs to push her harder, faster through the twigs and fallen pine needles. Her heart bashed against her ribcage, branches scratching her face and sheared her thin pajamas, adrenalin gushing in her veins, breathes sharp and frenzied. The switchblade, Maeve scrambled the switchblade in her hand, pressing a button that sprung to blade out, dull and scored. Perfect, now she can—a weight slammed against her back, launching her body forward in the dirt. Twigs embedded into her skin like needles, yelping in pain as the figure yanked her shoulder over, flipped her body to face upward.
A sharp blade pressed against her sweaty light copper neck, Maeve shifting back, shrinking away from the knife’s edge. The figure filled her vision, prickly fur gliding against her arms, golden eyes staring into her chocolate brown. Curls framed the figure’s face, tight braids mixed in with messy light brown locks, a scar marked on his hairline near his eyebrow. Its face was freckled and scratched, broad jawline built in-between a flat chin, deep-set eyes flickering around her face.
It’s a boy close to her age.
Maeve wiggled under his firm grip, grunting and cursing under her breath. She needed to break free and run. The blade nicked her throat, blood oozing down her neck to her dirty fleece hoodie.
“Get off me!” Maeve shoved her hands on his bare chest, nothing budged. His eyes darted to her hands, cocking his head. His lip quirked up, breath slowed to a steady pace. A hand caressed Maeve’s check with cold-scarred fingers, hissed as he ran over a small cut near her ear. He stared at the wound, lifting his hand to his face, licking his thumb and swiped the minor injury.