Before Amara could even think to run, rough hands grabbed her arms, yanking her to her feet. She gasped, twisting in their grip, but their hold was firm. “Well, well… look what we’ve got here,” one of the men sneered, his gaze hard and cold as he took in her disheveled appearance.
The other poacher, his face marked by a jagged scar, snatched up his rifle, aiming it squarely at her chest. “What are we supposed to do with her now?” the scarred one asked, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Simple.” His partner grinned, adjusting his hold on the gun.