“She’s gone,” Molly whispers. “And she sounded terrified. I’ve never heard anyone scream like that.”
I’m already rising from cover, adrenaline burning through every cell in my body.
“Breaker,” Viper snaps, grabbing my arm and yanking me down as another shot tears through the lumber stack. “Are you insane? Stay down!”
“Fuck that. I have to get out of here. I’m going after her.”
“You’re running into gunfire,” he hisses. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Riley’s in danger,” I snarl. “I need to get to her.”
More bullets slam into the siding. Wood splinters. Metal shrieks. The shooter is getting closer.
Viper’s eyes go cold. “You’re going to run into gunfire for a civilian you’ve known for, what, three days?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I fucking am.”
He shakes his head, disgust on his face. “For some fucking civilian? You never learn. You never fucking learn, Breaker.”
I crouch low, muscles coiled, ready to bolt.
“Shut the fuck up and cover me,” I tell Viper.
“Are you insane? You run out there, you're dead!”
“Then cover me better.”
But it’s too late.
I burst from behind the stack, sprinting toward the doorway, to where my bike waits outside. Shots crack through the air. Dirt explodes near my feet, bullets whistle by my ears so close they could kiss the spot where Riley’s lips were last night.
Viper swears behind me, yelling my name.
I don’t stop.
I don’t look back.
Riley needs me.
I break into the open air, heart in my throat, feet pounding toward my motorcycle —
BANG.
Chapter Twenty
Riley
I’m shaking so hard I can barely keep the wheel straight.
The highway blurs beneath my tires, trees smearing into streaks of green on either side of me. Ironwood Falls disappears behind me in the rearview mirror — a small town shrinking into a dot I can’t look at without feeling like I’m going to vomit.
I don’t even remember putting the car in gear, don’t remember backing out of the lot, my tires spewing a mountain of gravel behind me. All I remember is the roses. And the note. That nightmarish, violating note.
YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM ME.
It’s a shriek tattooed behind my eyes. I see it every time I blink, every time I dare to look in the rearview. I keep expecting to see him there, the glassy stare and the wolf-grin and the hands that hurt so much more than I ever admit, even to myself. I’m driving like I can outrun the memory. It’s irrational, pathetic, necessary. It’s the only thing keeping me from caving in on myself and pulling over to scream until the sun sets.
He’s toying with me because he feels safe, because nothing can keep him away. He’s watching me, he knows me, he’s going to play with my head until he feels like he’s had enough, and then he’s going to do to me those same things that he used to brag about doing to other women.
