“He was released from jail pending trial.”
The words sound unreal at first. When it sinks in, fear and panic spike in my mind. He is out in the community. He could be anywhere, even on his way to settle a score with me or Onyx.
I grip the edge of my desk with one hand, as she continues explaining all the details. But the only piece I cling to is that he’s wearing a monitoring device on his ankle. That means they know where he is at all times, so he likely won’t risk trying to come here. I manage to thank her before she ends the call, though I feel numb inside.
The moment the line disconnects, my anxiety spikes again. I begin to pace as I think about this latest turn of events. He knows where I live. He knows I’m alone.
I’m vulnerable out here all by myself. I walk over and double check the door is locked. I move from room to room, checkingthat all the windows are locked as well, even the one Onyx used to gain access to my cabin to rescue me.
I keep telling myself I’m safe, that he won’t come back. But none of it settles the panic building in my mind. I can’t stop thinking about how quickly things went wrong the last time, and how easily they could go wrong again now that he’s no longer behind bars.
***
I try and get on with my life. The bills won’t pay themselves, and thanks to Onyx’s club’s gift I can continue working. But I can’t stop the anxiety.
Not just for myself. Memories of Onyx’s face as he beat the intruder go through my mind. He could have killed a man because of me. He and his brothers are good men, but I can’t involve them in my life anymore. So when he offered to drop in to see me, I told him I was busy.
The excuses came easy.
I try to mean it when I say I’m busy. I tell myself it’s practical, sensible, even kind. Distance is a form of protection. That’s the story I cling to as I lock the door to the world and hide out in my cabin.
Work becomes my refuge and my punishment.
I throw myself into it with a ferocity that surprises even me. Early mornings bleed into late nights. I take on extra jobs, anything that keeps my hands busy and my mind occupied. Paperwork, calls, invoices—mundane tasks become lifelines. If I’m focused on work, I don’t have to think about the sound of my own breathing when panic creeps in. If I’m exhausted, maybe I won’t dream.
But exhaustion has its own sharp edges.
Every unexpected noise makes my heart slam against my ribs. A twig cracking outside. The wind blowing over the wooden shingle roof at night causes me to freeze and lie awake listening, counting, and waiting for something terrible to happen. My body hasn’t caught up with my logic. It doesn’t care that Charles Brennan is gone. It remembers.
Almost two weeks pass like this—me moving through my days with a brittle kind of determination. I function. I hide out in my cabin like a fugitive.
At night, the silence is unbearable. Still, sleep comes in fragments. When I close my eyes, I see flashes of Onyx’s face, twisted with a rage I’d never seen before. His fists. The way his body moved like something unleashed. The terrifying knowledge of how far he would have gone if he hadn’t been stopped.
All because of me.
The weight of that presses down on my chest until it’s hard to breathe.
I replay the moment over and over, rewriting it in my head. What if I hadn’t been there? What if I hadn’t needed saving? What if I hadn’t brought danger to his door, to his life, to his club? Onyx lives on the edge of the law as it is. One wrong move, one charge too many, and everything his family built could come crashing down.
I can’t be that risk.
So I don’t answer his messages right away. Then I don’t answer them at all. When my phone buzzes and his name lights up the screen, my stomach twists painfully. I let it ring out, telling myself he’ll understand. That he’s busy too. That this distance is temporary.
The lies get easier the more I repeat them.
It’s not the quiet that hurts—it’s the absence of him. He doesn’t know it, but I know he used to come and check on me regularly after my grandfather died. I’d hear his bike approaching and sometimes see him standing guard, like a silent sentry. To some it might have seemed creepy, but to me it made me feel less alone. I’ve not seen him since the night Brennan forced his way into my cabin.
I miss him with an ache that feels physical.
I tell myself that surviving doesn’t always mean being brave. Sometimes it means being stubborn. Sometimes it means choosing the harder path because it’s the safer one for everyone else. I remind myself that I’ve handled things on my own before. I can do it again.
After almost two weeks, I feel like I’m going mad. Then my phone rings. My heart jumps, thinking that it’s Onyx, but my eyebrows knit when I see it’s Queenie. I answer.
“Okay, honey. Enough’s enough,” she says by way of introduction.
“Hello, Queenie.”
“You’re ignoring my boy. Wanna tell me what that’s all about?” she asks.
