CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ilse's heart hammered and felt like it was trying to migrate to her throat. She felt a sudden urge to scream, summoned from somewhere deep in her psyche. Standing in a forest, threatened by a predator, she was reminded of her own memories. Her breathing came rapid and ragged.
The man, though, didn't much resemble her father. This fellow was poorly kept, with stringy, oily hair which hung past his shoulders. He had a thick beard and an untrimmed mustache. His clothing looked days old with mud-stains, frayed at the hem. His eyes were sunken in his face, and he kept the g*n pointed at Sawyer's head. He raised a pale hand, flicking his fingers to the side. “Get away from my house,” he snapped, growling as he did. “Get—get!”
Ilse shot a look at Sawyer; she breathed in, out, ex
