The sky’s too bright, too clean—blue stretched thin; clouds bleached white as pressed linen. That kind of light that doesn’t soothe, only exposes. Strips things bare. Like the land itself is watching, waiting for war.
The engine dies under my palm, and the silence it leaves behind is still.
The porch is empty. The lights are off. She’s still not home.
The notification rang from my cell at 10:24am. There’s been no movement since.
She’s with those sluts. The devious little witches who prance around town like they own the place, with a different man on their arm every week.
I’d checked the CCTV that leads from the road to see where she was going. Part of me hoped she was going to see the rockstar, so I’d have an excuse to put a bullet in his head, but instead, she’d headed down Almere Road, then down the back road towards Constance Bishops home.
I’d had Carter pass to check it out as soon as I knew that’s where she was headed. He was working the area and was minutes away. Heconfirmed he’d seen her through the window, so I knew she’d made it there. I knew she was safe.
I sit in the driver’s seat a while longer. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I just breathe through clenched teeth and catalog every fucking detail like I’m working a scene—because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A crime.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Where the fuck is she?
I scan the road through the window for the fifth time—then the tenth. Still no movement. No gravel crunch. No silhouette.
I see myself barrelling out to Constance’s house, wrenching the door open and hauling Summer back by whatever I can grab—anger like a weight in my chest, every muscle ready to move. But that’s not what I’ll do. That’s not the play that wins.
I undo the seatbelt and climb out of the truck, boots hitting gravel as if I’m trying to chase my own impatience down the driveway. The place feels hollow without her, like a room after a laugh has been sucked out of it.
For a heartbeat panic claws at me and makes the bones under my skin ache. The image of her leaving flashes through and for a second I feel the animal part of me rise, the part that would take and punish and drag her home if I had to. Then it settles into something colder and calmer—a heat that doesn’t roar but burns steady. If she leaves, I’ll find her. If she comes back on her own, I’ll be waiting. Either way, I’ll make sure she knows there was never anywhere else to go.
Inside, there’s no note, no sign she’s trying to vanish. Her things are where they always are: a pair of jeans slung over the chair, her bag dumped by the bed, a book left face-down as if someone meant to come back and didn’t. That silence isn’t relief so much as proof—proof that she didn’t walk away, proof that she’ll come back to this life whether she wants to or not. Relief eases into me; I scrub my damp palms on my jeans and lean back against the wall, forcing a slow, steady breath.
I head downstairs and sink into the leather chair near the window. It groans under my weight. I take the pistol from my belt and set it on the armrest. Not because I plan to use it—but because Ineed something to tether me. Something to remind me there are still lines that haven’t been crossed. Yet.
Does she not grasp the risk she’s taking, walking out of here without me? One of Jackson’s men could’ve snatched her off the road before she even made it past the mailbox. But no—of course she doesn’t. She doesn’t know the whole story. Doesn’t understand what would’ve happened to her if I hadn’t claimed her first.
The thought nearly breaks me. She has no idea. Doesn’t know what those men are, what they do, or what would have become of her name—carved into a ledger in some basement, price-tag hanging off it like a cruel bow.
She thinks I took her to own her. Part of that’s true. But the real reason I brought her here was simpler, uglier: to stop them from tearing her apart.
I shoot up from the chair, dragging my jacket off the hook with a snarl. If she’s not home in five minutes, I’ll make my way to Constance’s. I’ll burn her fucking house down and drag Summer home, kicking and screaming if that’s what it takes to get her back.
But then?—
I hear it. Shoes on gravel. Hesitant. Light. Steps that know they’ve gone too far.
My heart stops with a mixture of relief and fury.
I back away from the door like a predator letting the prey walk in on its own. I sit back in my chair and grasp my gun, let her see it in my hand, let her see the depravity behind my eyes.
The knob turns. The door creaks open. And there she is. Hair wild. Eyes too wide. Breath shallow. Her hand trembles where it grips the strap of that pathetic little purse she used to carry her books in.
She steps over the threshold like she’s entering a cell. And maybe she is. She freezes when she sees me. I don’t speak. Not yet. Because she has no idea how close she just came to being stolen from me—how close I came to slaughtering innocent civillians just to keep her alive.
I stay seated. One arm slung along the chair. The other beside the gun. Not touching. Just there. Let her look at it. Let her understand.
“Nice of you to come home,” I say finally— quiet. Deadly.
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes flick to the gun, then to me, like she’s deciding which one is more dangerous.
“You forget to tell me where you were going, sweetheart?”
