I walked past the muddy tire tracks, into the tall grass that brushed my calves, whispering as I moved. For the first time in years, there was no one watching. No Shepherd’s eyes following my steps. No whispers. Just me.
My hands ached in the cooling air, the scars pulling tight, but I didn’t hide them. I lifted them, palms up, and watched the light catch the uneven skin.
They’d tried to take everything from me, my will, my body, my right to choose. They hadn’t taken this.
Touch. That was mine now.
Who I reached for.
Who I wanted near.
Who I let close enough to feel my heartbeat.
A smile tugged at my mouth before I could stop it, thinking of the man who’d carried me through the fire. The one with the rough hands and the deep voice that had felt like safety.
You’re safe now, darlin’.
The memory of his voice brushed against my mind like a hand I wasn’t ready to let go of.
The wind shifted, carrying a distant rumble down the road—a motorcycle, faint but familiar. My pulse jumped before I could tell it not to. I could almost see him under that bruised sky, jaw set, eyes sharp on the horizon.
Something in me leaned toward that sound, quiet and certain. I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my heartbeat steady against my palm.
I didn’t belong to anyone anymore, but I wasn’t afraid to feel.
Not this time. Not ever again.
I stood at the edge of the pasture until the last light faded, the world hushed but alive. Behind me, the farmhouse windows glowed soft and safe. Ahead, the road stretched into shadow—open and waiting.
For the first time, I didn’t have to ask permission to follow it.
And that felt like freedom.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE LUNCH RUSHhad thinned, leavin’ theplace in that sweet in-between hum I liked best, music low, glasses clinkin’, fryer hissin’ soft from the kitchen.
High Voltage wasn’t fancy, but it sure as hell wasn’t a dive either. I’d made sure of that. The floors were old oak, polished smooth from years of boots and barstools. The walls were lined with framed photos, bikes, burnouts, charity rides, a few sunsets over the marsh that Rune swore he’d taken himself. Edison bulbs hung low over the booths, throwin’ off a steady amber glow that made the chrome shine and the whiskey look richer than it was.
And me being me, I swore there were a couple ghosts hangin’ around, old tenants, maybe, laughin’ at us keepin’ the world runnin’ one burger and beer at a time.
It smelled like grilled steak, sea salt, and beer foam. Comfort, not chaos.
Behind the bar, Gatsby wiped down the counter, tattoos flexin’ as he worked. “Order truck’s late again,” he said, watchin’ the ice machine rumble to life.
“Yeah,” I said, signin’ a form on the clipboard. “Mick texted. Traffic comin’ into Charleston’s a mess.”
Ruby slid past with a tray balanced on one palm, bracelets jinglin’ soft. Red hair pulled back tight, brown eyes piercing and observant,she moved like she owned every inch of the floor.
“Could be worse,” she said, hip-bumpin’ the door open to the kitchen. “Could be runnin’ a biker bar on the edge of hell.”
“This isn’t a biker bar,” I called after her. “It’s a respectable establishment with good food and better liquor.”
Her laugh came back through the doorway, soft and easy. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, boss.”
Rune lounged on a stool near the speakers, a beer in one hand and a pool cue in the other, like he couldn’t decide which vice to stick with. “Place could use some music that don’t sound like my granddad’s truck radio,” he said.
“Your granddad had taste,” Gatsby shot back. “Skynyrd’s classic.”
