The sound of my own voice grounded me, thin at first, but steadying. I took a breath, then another, letting the present ease in around the edges. Slowly, the bonfire below shifted back into view, its flames no longer reaching for me but simply dancing where they belonged.
Chain had joined the group now, dropping down beside Gearhead, the firelight carving warm gold along his jaw. For a brief moment, the exhilaration from earlier—riding behind himon that bike, the world opening wide and wild—rose in my chest. But it faltered the second I saw her.
A woman climbed into his lap, laughing against his throat, touching him like she’d done it a thousand times. My body went rigid, not from jealousy, not from hope, but from something louder, older, carved deep through experience. Men said one thing. Did another. They promised with one hand while taking with the other. I had scars to prove how easy it was to believe the wrong thing.
Chain pushed her off a moment later, his expression unreadable in the shifting firelight. But I didn’t let that spark anything inside me. I refused to make the same mistake twice.
Then his gaze lifted, and found mine.
From the yard to the window, through smoke and glass, his eyes locked with mine. I didn’t look away. Didn’t drop my chin. Didn’t let the past drag me under again. I held him there, unwavering, solid, unbroken. I wasn’t a vessel. I wasn’t a prize. I wasn’t something to claim or hide or reshape.
I was mine.
My hands dropped from the curtains, trembling not with fear, but with the effort it took to stay present. When he finally turned and walked away from the flames, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I crossed the quiet room, and crawled into the bed that was finally mine and no one else’s.
Tomorrow, a new life would begin again—raw and uncertain and imperfect, but honest.
And I would not let the past steal even one more piece of me.
Not tonight.
Not ever again.
***
MORNING CAME TOOearly.
Sunlight cut through the blinds in thin, bright stripes, bars across the wall that reminded me too much of the room I’d left behind. For a dazed heartbeat, I almost forgot where I was. Then the scent of coffee and bacon drifted up, warm and rich.
Not the compound.
No bells. No orders. No Shepherd dictating my day before it even began.
Freedom still felt strange in my hands. Some mornings it settled there easy. Others, it slipped straight through my fingers.
I dressed slow—jeans, a faded tee Zeynep had lent me—then followed the noise toward the kitchen.
Josie stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, spatula flipping pancakes with the kind of ease that made me wonder how many mornings he’d done this before. Flour dusted his forearms. The clubhouse was quiet except for the low sound of the exhaust fan and the soft sizzle from the pan.
“Mornin’, Lark,” he said, smiling with as much warmth as the skillet in front of him.
“Morning.” I slid onto a stool. “You always cook this early?”
“Always cook, period,” he said with a grin. “If I don’t, these heathens live off gas station burritos and bad decisions.”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it. “Guess they’re lucky to have you.”
“Guess you are too—ifyou’re hungry.”
“I can make something for myself,” I said automatically, the old instinct bright as ever. I didn’t want to take more than I earned.
He didn’t argue. Just set a plate in front of me—pancakes, eggs, bacon—steam curling up in soft ribbons. “Eat,” he said simply. “It’s what I do.”
I hesitated, then picked up the fork. “Thanks. I’m still… adjusting to all this.”
Josie nodded, no pity anywhere in his face. “Freedom’s messy,” he said. “But it’s better than the alternative.”
