“No.” The word escapes you in a harsh exhalation of breath.

Martin’s eyebrows raise and a deep frown creases his brow. “You’re telling me no?” His voice is low. Dangerous. Carries more than a hint of warning.

You choose to ignore it. You’re not going to leave him and nothing he does or says is going to make you change your mind. “I’m telling you I’m not going. I’m not leaving you.”

Martin doesn’t argue with you. He doesn’t try to persuade you to fall in line. He strides towards you and grabs your arm in a firm grip. Turning you to one side, his hand collides with your bare bottom three times.

You jump, both hands flying back to your stinging backside and rubbing. You twist out of his grip and glare at him. “Martin.”

“I am not arguing with you.” He says each word carefully and slowly. Like he thinks you won’t understand him. “If you stay here, you will be in real danger. Not just from the spirits, but from me. I can’t protect you and I will not put you at risk.” As he speaks, he physically dresses you, pulling your clothes into place. While you do try to resist, letting your body stay limp, Martin’s determination seems much stronger than yours. Eventually, you’re standing in front of him, fully clothed and pouting at the fact.

“I don’t want to leave you.” Instead of sounding sure and strong, though, the pout can clearly be heard in your voice. You’re whining like a little boy and can’t help but flush at the fact.

Martin ignores your protest. He glances towards the door and stiffens. It’s barely perceptible, the tension, but you can see it in the set of his shoulders and the way his hands clench into fists.

“What is it?” Your voice comes out soft and more fear-filled than you would have liked.

“One of them’s here.” Martin scoops up the rifle and grabs your arm and begins dragging you through the door, out into the hallway.

You try dragging your feet, but you’re only wearing socks and they can’t find anywhere to grip on the carpet. “You’re going to throw me out there with them?” you squeak.

“Of course not.” Martin halts with you by the door. He picks up your sneakers and puts them on you himself. “I’m going to take you out there and put you in the car.” He straightens up and reaches to grab the door handle.

You swallow hard. “I don’t want to leave you.” The words escape your lips in a moan and tears fill your eyes. The fight and defiance seeps out of you, leaving a pit in your stomach. You wrap your arms around him in a tight hug. “I love you so much.”

He tilts your chin up and presses a kiss to your lips, holding you tight enough that you feel safe and secure.

All too soon, though, he pulls back, slowly loosening his arms from around you. The next moment, he gasps and tenses up, stumbles and presses his arm against the door to keep himself upright.

“Martin?” You take a tentative step closer to him.

He pushes himself up and shakes his head. When he looks at you, his eyes appear unfocused. Glazed over. It lasts for only a few seconds, but it’s enough to send a chill down your spine.

“I love you,” he says, his voice low but clear. “But I need to get you out of here now.” He grabs your arm and opens the front door.

There’s a glint of metal and Martin grunts, suddenly stumbling back into you.

One of the teenagers who killed himself in the joyride is standing on the porch. In one hand, he holds a switchblade, stained crimson with blood. Martin’s blood.

“Martin.” You grab onto him, your mouth dry and a pit of fear growing in your stomach.

“It’s not gonna kill me.” His voice is broken, slightly, with pain, but he forces himself to stand up, staying between you and the teenager.

“Hurts like a son of a bitch, though, doesn’t it?” The teenager flashes a wild grin and takes a step closer.

Martin moves almost faster than you can see, slamming the butt of the rifle into the teenager’s face. As the younger man recoils, hands flying to his face, Martin grabs your arm and drags you off the porch and towards the car.

With each step he takes, blood drips to the ground and your stomach drops. “Martin…” Your voice comes out weak. Scared.

“It won’t kill me.” Martin pulls you into a rough embrace, a hard kiss, then pushes the car keys into your hand. “Go. Before I lose myself again.”

You aren’t left with any other choice. After one last look at the man you love, the man you planned to spend the rest of your life with, you open the car door. You get in, close the door, buckle up. And then you drive, without looking back, towards the reservation.