The train rumbled through the countryside, sun beginning its descent as it rolled toward Saint Denis. You sat beside your father in the first-class carriage. He had dozed off. You, however, remained alert — something in the pit of your stomach felt wrong.

You caught flickers of movement — shadows riding alongside the train. Low rumbles of hooves. Then, distant gunfire. Muffled — like someone trying not to startle the passengers. And yet, the screams started anyway.

Your father still snored.

Panic bloomed in your chest as you rose, stepping around him. The revolver your father always carried was out of reach. He never believed danger would come to him.

You opened the door to the hallway only for your breath to hitch.

Men were shouting. Dark silhouettes on horseback flanking the train, bandanas over their faces. And another shot.

You didn’t wait to find out.

You bolted in the opposite direction, fumbling through the door between cars, dress catching on rusted steel. Behind you chaos unfurled — men yelling, passengers being pulled from their seats.

You pushed through the door and stepped onto the narrow platform between carriages, slamming chest-first into someone.

Strong arms caught you before you could fall. You looked up and froze as you met sharp, intelligent eyes.

He was tall. Broader than any city man you'd seen. Dressed in all black. His hat cast a shadow over his face but you could see the smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Well now,” he said smoothly. “Ain’t you a little dove outta its cage.”

“Who are you?” you snapped, shoving against his chest. He didn’t budge. Instead, he looked down at you, amused.

“Dutch van der Linde, missy. And you—” his gaze dipped low, tracing the curve of your panic-tight chest, “—are coming with me.”

Your heart dropped. You recognized him. Everyone in Saint Denis did — a gang leader, wanted across the country.

“I know exactly who you are,” Dutch said, voice hot near your ear. “Your father’ll pay good money to get you back, sugar.”

“No,” you breathed, twisting in his hold. “Let go of me!”

He held you, strong arms lifting you off the ground. He threw you over his shoulder, chuckling darkly as you trashed, clawed against his coat.

He tossed you up into his saddle like you weighed nothing and mounted behind you, one arm tight around your waist, the other on the reins.

The ride back to camp was a blur — trees flashing past, men laughing. Dutch barely spoke, save for the occasional tightening of his arm to keep you steady or warning when you twisted against him too sharply.

By the time the horses slowed, dusk had fallen.

They pulled you down from the saddle and marched you straight to Dutch’s tent.

“You’ll stay here for now,” Dutch said, removing his gloves. “You’ll be fed. No harm’ll come to you, long as your father sees reason.”

You turned to him, eyes defiant. “You won’t get away with this.”

“Funny — I keep hearin’ that and yet here I am. Still standing. Still breathing. And you?” His gaze raked over you. “Right where I meant you to be.”