My pulse pounds in my ears. The farther I get from town, the worse it gets — that sick, choking terror curling up my spinelike ice water. I tell myself I’m heading to Portland. I have no plan beyond that — no hotel booked, no friend to crash with, no cash. Just the vague hope that the bigger the city, the more invisible I’ll be. I could park in some Walmart lot, blend in with the other desperate, drifting people who sleep in their cars. Or I could disappear into the gleaming anonymity of the mall, or the shadowy corners of a dive bar, or the anonymous current of a city bus. I picture myself on a train, hair cropped and dyed, name changed, accent softened. I could be anyone, anywhere, as long as it isn’t Riley Monroe, the girl who never learned how to fight back.
My breath hitches, and I wipe at my cheek, surprised to find tears I don’t remember crying. I taste salt on my lips and realize I must’ve been weeping for a very long time.How typical that I’m so used to it I don’t even know when I’m bawling my eyes out in terror.
Then I hear it.
A low growl. A rising roar. Getting louder. Getting closer.
I glance in the rearview mirror.
My heart stutters.
Breaker.
On his motorcycle, charging down the highway like the devil himself is behind him. He closes the distance in seconds. He’s coming for me. Something wild and fragile flares up in my chest, somewhere between terror and hope. I want to pull over, to let him catch me, to collapse into his arms and let him make it all better. But I’m afraid. Afraid of what he'll say, what he'll think, what he'll have to do to keep me safe.
Afraid that this time, even he won’t be enough.
He pulls alongside me, one hand off the handlebars, and gestures sharply to the shoulder of the road. I pull over on instinct, my body naturally obeying his command, and my tires crunching on gravel. My hands tremble.
Breaker kills the engine and swings off the bike, already moving toward me.
He’s at my door before I can finish the thought. Breaker doesn’t knock, doesn’t wait. He yanks the door open. His hands find my seatbelt, unbuckling it, then he drops to one knee so we're face to face. His helmet is off, and his hair is plastered to his skull. His eyes are fixed on me — steady, wild, burning with something I can’t name.
“Breaker…” I whisper.
He pulls me from the car into his embrace, and I melt into him. I can’t help it. His warmth, his scent, the way he holds me like I matter; it’s too much and not enough all at once.
“Fuck, Sparrow…” His voice is rough with fear and fury. “That scream… what happened?” He pulls back just enough to look at me, hands cradling my face with a gentleness that breaks something inside me.
He kisses my forehead. It’s a soft, careful kiss, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter.
I want to tell him everything; I want to collapse against him and let him carry all of it.
But the words lodge in my throat, and terror sits heavy on my tongue.
Breaker notices. His brows draw together. “Riley… talk to me. No more secrets.”
I look into his eyes — those deep, storm-dark eyes — and something inside me steadies. Because I don’t see judgment, and I don’t see doubt; I see care, fierce protectiveness, and something else so deep and powerful that I can’t name it yet, though it fills me with heat.
I swallow. “Breaker… I’m not sure if I can.”
He squeezes my hand. “You can tell me anything.”
“I have a stalker,” I whisper. “Someone from my past. Someone who won’t let me go. He’s a killer, a monster. He hurt me, and he’s hurt other women, too.”
Breaker goes still. But not shocked. Not confused.
Just steady.
Like he’s been expecting this.
I shake my head slowly and blink at him. “Why aren’t you surprised?”
He meets my gaze and there’s steel there, steel that burns alongside purpose, conviction, and righteous fury.
“I’m not surprised,” he says, “because I know all about him.”
“You… know?”
