With a deep inhalation, he took in another lungful of the clean, sweet air. Closing his eyes, he became sixteen years old again. He’d been scared that day in the forest, more scared even than today. And out of fear he’d run deep into the woods. He’d run then not to get away, but only to build the anticipation, to delay the inevitable. And to save a little face. He’d wanted it to happen, but there was no reason for Søren to know quite how much. But then…he’d been caught. He could still feel that iron grip on his neck, those fingers against his throat. The hard forest floor biting into his back and the mouth at his ear.
Gawd these two might kill us.