I don't know how long I've been lying there when I hear it.
At first, I think I'm imagining things.
My mind playing tricks on me, giving me hope where there is none.
I've been drifting in and out of consciousness, caught between waking nightmares and the real one I'm living.
The line between what's real and what's fantasy has blurred.
But then I hear it again.
A rumble.
Low and distant, but growing louder.
A sound I know as well as my own heartbeat.
A sound that means home, that means safety, that means Garrett.
Motorcycles.
I push myself up, ignoring the screaming pain in my ribs, my back, my everywhere.
Every movement is agony, but I force myself to sit, to strain toward the sound.
Praying I'm not wrong.
Praying this isn't a hallucination conjured by a desperate, broken mind.
The rumble gets louder.
Closer.
And now there are other sounds too—shouting, the crack of gunfire, the squeal of tires on gravel.
An engine revving.
Glass shattering.
The unmistakable chaos of violence.
Outside the cabin, Virgil's men are yelling.
Running. I can hear their boots on the wooden porch, hear them scrambling for weapons, hear the fear in their voices.
These men who were so confident an hour ago, so sure of their power—they're scared now.
And then I hear Virgil himself, his voice sharp with something I've never heard from him before.
Fear.
Real, genuine fear.
He's afraid.
The realization hits me like a drug—better than any high I ever chased.
Virgil, who has terrorized me for years, who thought he owned me, who broke into my home and stole me and violated me—he's afraid.
