Relief rushes through me so fast it’s almost dizzying. Good. Perfect. I need this. I need the clarity of the hunt, the violence, the purpose. Something to bleed the fear out before it eats me alive.
I swing onto my bike, twist the throttle, and take off before the engine finishes roaring to life. Whatever’s waiting at that address — bounty, danger, hell itself — it’s better than sitting still.
Better than lying next to a woman who's already under my skin. A woman I could lose.
A woman whose death I couldn't survive.
Chapter Eighteen
Riley
I wake up to cold sheets. Alone.
Alone.
What happened?
For a few seconds, I can’t believe it. My mind flails for an explanation, some kind of logic that doesn’t leave me hollow and confused. I’m lying on my side, one arm thrown out, hand curled around the ghost heat where Breaker slept. The indentation of him is still there, pressed deep into the mattress, but the warmth’s fading fast. The room’s too quiet, too still, with the only sound the soft tap of rain on the window and the hushed, mocking pulse of my own heartbeat.
Last night was so vivid it feels like a fever dream now. The way he touched me, how he made me laugh, how he held me until I was sure the world was finally, finally safe. For a moment, I was something other than a broken thing. I got to be wanted. I got to be more than my damage. But now, the silence in the room is sharp as a blade, every second cutting apart the story I tried so hard to believe.
My chest aches. It’s not just disappointment — it’s a kind of grief that knows every heartbreak by their first name.
Breaker wouldn’t just leave. Would he? Would he, really?
I try to reason with myself, but every answer I come up with is worse than the last. Maybe he's grabbing coffee, acting like everything's fine while I'm here losing my mind. Or he got calledaway — club business, an emergency. Or maybe he woke up, looked at me, and realized I was never good enough to keep.
I sit up, pulling the blanket tight around my shoulders, knees hugged to my chest. The air’s cold, but my skin is burning, and I feel small and stupid and so, so tired. I remember the bed of that monster I’d left behind, how I’d wake with his weight pinning me in place, his hand a heavy shackle over my ribs. I remember the silence there, how it always meant I’d be punished for something I hadn’t even done. Have I been running all this time only to end up right back where I started — alone, afraid, waiting for the next bad thing to happen?
The room doesn’t even feel like Breaker’s anymore.
It feels like some secondhand Airbnb, a set piece for a story I was stupid enough to think I could change.
I stare at the ceiling and make myself list possibilities: he’ll be back in a minute; he’s just out at the garage; he’s talking with the guys in the shop; or he’s even making a phone call, trying to figure out how to tell me that last night was a mistake.
Maybe I’m just catastrophizing because I’m wired for disaster.
Maybe I am the disaster.
I drag myself out of bed. The floor is freezing against my feet. I glimpse myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. Hair wild, eyes red, skin blotchy from crying or maybe just from feeling too much all at once. She looks like someone who’s lost her place in the world and isn’t sure she’ll get it back.
I need to get moving. I need to do something. Anything.
I cross to the bathroom and close the door behind me, shutting out the emptiness of the bedroom. I turn the shower on as hot as it will go and step inside, bracing myself against the burn. My mind races in a dozen directions at once: should I stay and wait for him, should I go and never come back, should I packup my things and disappear before anyone has to look at me with pity in their eyes.
The water scalds, but it doesn’t wake me up. If anything, it blurs the edges, making the ache inside my chest bigger. I scrub myself raw, exorcising the ghost of his hands down my spine, across my hips, under my jaw. My mind dwells on how gentle he was, how careful. I remember him telling me it was okay to be afraid. I remember thinking maybe this time I could trust someone, and maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad.
Stupid. How could I be so, so stupid?
I stand under the spray until the hot water runs out and the chill creeps in. I turn off the faucet and step out, wrapping a towel around myself like armor. In the fogged mirror, I wipe away the condensation and see the truth written in my reflection: I am absolutely terrified of another repeat… another monster… another nightmare… and it doesn’t matter how many times I survive it, it never stops feeling like the end of the world.
Get a grip, Riley. You’re not trapped yet.
I get dressed — quick, efficient, no wasted motion. Shirt, jeans, jacket, shoes, not bothering with makeup; finally, instead of fixing my hair, I just brush it back and tie it in a knot. I move through Breaker’s place on autopilot, not touching anything, not letting myself linger on the way his shirts are folded on the dresser or the way his aftershave still hangs in the air. I grab my bag and my phone and don’t look back.
I walk through the bar, head down.
Molly’s behind the counter, drying a glass, eyes sharp and watchful. She says nothing, but her gaze hits me like a warning shot. There’s no judgment, just a kind of world-weary understanding. She sees the panic in my face, the desperate way I’m holding myself together, and I know she knows. I want to ask her what to do, but I also want to disappear before anyone can witness the fallout.
