He couldn't have been much older than twenty.
Lean. Wiry. The kind of build the world gave you when meals became a luxury instead of a guarantee. Dirty blond hair fell over one eye, uneven like he'd hacked at it himself. A jacket a size too big hung from his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, pocketknife in his belt.
Cocky.
His grin gave that away before anything else did. The type who talked big because he wanted everyone to believe he was dangerous, the type who got himself killed first.
I slowly rolled my wrists against the rope behind the tree, testing the knots without him noticing.
Still tight.
Shame.
My eyes lifted back to him, he'd stopped just outside kicking distance.
Smart enough.
For now.
Because if he was stupid enough to step any closer, I'd happily remind him that tied hands didn't stop me from breaking bones.
Or at the very least... ruin his chances of ever having kids.
