That truth sat heavy in my chest—hot, acidic, unforgiving.
And somewhere between the broken hallway and the fresh night air outside, something inside me shifted. Not a gentle realization. A snap. A vow forged in something deeper than bone.
I wasn’t going back to the man I was before tonight.
Not to the ranger who left people to chase leads while praying he wasn’t too late. Not to the son still haunted by two bodies he couldn’t save. Not to the boy who promised to protect everyone and still couldn’t reach his parents in time.
I’d lived with that failure my whole life.
And now, with her breath warm on my neck and her whispered words unraveling me from the inside out, I understood something with terrifying clarity: I didn’t have room for another loss like that. Not with her.
She was my duty now. My purpose. My line in the sand.
And I would burn the whole goddamn world before I ever left her vulnerable again.
Never again.
Chapter 20
Stephanie
Consciousness came slowly, like swimming up through dark water toward a distant light.
First came the sounds—a steady beeping, the hum of air conditioning, footsteps in a hallway. Then the smells—disinfectant sharp enough to sting, something floral trying to mask it, and underneath it all, something familiar. Safe.
Memory crashed back in fragments.
The trunk. God, the trunk. Dark and airless, my body folded into impossible angles, tape on my mouth making breathing feel like drowning. The car moving, stopping, turning. His voice through the metal, singing along to the radio like this was a romantic road trip instead of a kidnapping.
I'd concentrated on one thing in that darkness: Liam would come. He would figure it out, track me down, save me. All I had to do was survive until he did. So I'd breathed through my nose, slow and steady, and thought about his face. His hands. His voice saying "I've got you" the way he had so many times before.
When Marcus had finally opened the trunk, I'd played unconscious, letting myself go limp as he lifted me out. He wasn't strong, but desperation gave him enough power to carry me into that horrible place—an abandoned hotel that smelled like mold and decay and broken dreams.
The room he'd prepared was insane. Candles everywhere, creating flickering shadows on water-stained walls. A makeshift altar with printed photos of me from magazines, concerts, social media. Roses—dying roses in vases, petals scattered on a moldy mattress he'd covered with a white sheet. And that dress. That fucking white wedding dress he'd forced me into, his hands shaking with excitement while I bit through my own tongue to keep from screaming.
He'd been completely unhinged, swinging between tender devotion and volcanic rage in seconds.
"The preacher will be here soon," he'd said, adjusting my hair like we were really about to get married. "Father Michael. He understands our love. He's driving from Houston."
Then, moments later, he’d be screaming. "You left me! Made me chase you across the country! Made me look like a fool!"
And then back to tender. "But I forgive you, my love. Once we're married, everything will be perfect."
Then rage again when I'd tried to move: "Stop fighting! You're ruining everything! This is supposed to be beautiful!"
I'd known I was going to die in that room. When he'd pulled out the knife, pressing it to my throat while ranting about our eternal love, I'd thought about Liam one last time. At least I'd had these weeks with him. At least I'd known real love before?—
Then the door had exploded inward.
And there he was. My Liam. Looking like death incarnate, weapon drawn, brothers flanking him. They were like the four horsemen of the apocalypse come to rain down judgment.
I'd wanted to scream his name, but the tape made it impossible. Could only make sounds, trying to warn him about the knife. Marcus had jerked me up, using me as a shield, the blade cold against my throat.
"Back off! She's mine! We're getting married!"
I'd looked at Liam, trying to tell him with my eyes that it was okay. That seeing him one last time was enough. That I loved him. That he'd tried.
The knife had pressed harder, not quite breaking skin but close, so close.
