I walk faster, shoulders tight, praying nobody else will notice me.
The morning air is wet and cold as I step out into the lot; the last remains of a drizzle that looks like it’ll be dead by midday. My car is there —of course it is— sitting where Breaker parked it last night, gleaming and perfect, the memory of him fixing it clinging to the hood like morning dew.
It hurts to look at it. I want to believe the car is proof that he cares, but now it just feels like another thing I owe him, another reason to feel small.
The door unlocks with a soft chirp. I slide into the driver’s seat and drop my bag on the floor, hands shaking as I reach for the ignition.
Then I see them.
Roses. A dozen cut roses, deep red, splayed out across the passenger seat. The petals are so dark they’re almost black at the edges, lush and vulgar against the cracked vinyl. My heart leaps into my throat. My breath stalls, my pulse galloping with hope. Maybe he came back. Maybe he left them for me.
Maybe I was wrong.
I reach for the bouquet, hands trembling so hard I fumble the stems. They’re wet, as if just pulled from a vase, droplets of water clinging to the leaves and pooling in the plastic wrap. There’s no card, no ribbon, just a flat white envelope nestled in the blooms like a secret.
I smile. Imagining.
I want it to be a love note. Something sweet, something playful. Something that proves that last night meant something, that I’m not just a pit stop on Breaker’s way to wherever men like him go when they’re done with women like me.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I peel the envelope open.
I read the words, and the world tilts hard and final.
YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM ME.
I drop the note like it’s on fire. The scream rips up through my chest, raw and jagged, louder than I knew I could be. For a second, I can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t think. Instinct takes over. I slap the roses away, sending thorns and stems and petals flying from the car. The note flutters out of my lap, twisting down to the filthy mat. My hands are on the wheel before I even know what I’m doing. Shaking, I turn the key, stomp the gas, and peel out of the lot, tires shrieking over the gravel.
Driving blind, I swerve down narrow side streets, every muscle tense, panic screaming in my head. I feel violated. I feel every ounce of safety Breaker gave me last night evaporate into nothing, replaced by the terror I thought I’d left behind.
The rain drums on the windshield, sharp and frantic. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I have to move, have to put as much distance as possible between me and that sick, awful memory. My vision blurs with tears and panic. I run a stop sign, swerving hard at the last second, the car fishtailing as I fight to keep it on the road.
I'm running again, the way I always do. Only this time, I don't know if I'll ever stop.
Because he's found me.
And he won't stop until I'm dead.
Chapter Nineteen
Breaker
Viper waits for me behind the old sawmill, parked in the shadow of the crumbling building, his battered pickup angled so he can see both the fire road and anyone who might come up from the riverbank. He leans against the hood, arms folded, cigarette burning between his fingers — a pose so casual it looks staged, like the world’s most fucked-up recruitment poster. Dirt and pine needles cake the side of his truck. A second cigarette, half-smoked, lies crushed on the gravel. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d been here all night. The morning clouds haven’t cleared yet; everything looks washed-out and gray.
“You look like hell,” he says when I pull up.
“Didn’t sleep much.” The words come out easier than they should. I tell myself leaving was for the best — for her safety, not because I panicked. The lie tastes bitter. I can’t stop picturing her in my bed that morning, hair tangled, mouth soft with sleep. The way she clung to me, as if she knew I’d be gone before she woke. A warmth spreads through my chest.
He studies me with that too-sharp, too-perceptive stare he’s always had. “This about the girl?”
I tense. “The girl?”
Viper grins like he’s reading my thoughts. “Saw the look on your face at the bar the other day before we took down Miller. I’ve seen that look before. Have you really forgotten how well Iknow you, Breaker? Fuck, like we didn’t nearly die together how many times?”
A chill stutters through me that has nothing to do with the weather. It’s the way he says it — soft, familiar, almost gentle. Like it’s just us again, years ago, sharing silence and trauma in a ratty tent three thousand miles from anywhere. The way he says brother isn’t a club thing. It’s real. It’s the only thing that ever tethered us to this fucked-up world. I didn’t come here to talk about Riley, but once he cracks the door open, everything spills out.
“I care about her,” I admit quietly. “More than I should. It fucking scares me.”
Viper glances away, then back at me. “I get it,” he says. “I used to think I could carve out something normal, too. It’s bullshit, but it’s a nice form of bullshit.”
