I open my mouth. Nothing comes out at first. Just a shaky breath.
He steps closer, towers over me, still holding the phone like it’s evidence. “Savannah. Talk. Now.”
Tears prick my eyes. The guilt of keeping it all from him crashes in all at once. “I didn’t want to bother you while you were healing. The doctor said no stress. I thought… I thought if I ignored it, it would stop.”
His jaw locks so hard I hear the click. “How long?”
“Weeks.” My voice cracks. “It started a week after you got shot. While you were still in the hospital. Random texts. Little things at first. Then… they got specific. What I was wearing. Where I’d been. Like someone’s watching me. I never answer. But they keep coming.”
He scrolls up fast. I see his face change with every message he reads. By the time he hits the one about the black hoodie this morning, his knuckles are white around the phone. He sets it down on the dresser very carefully. Like if he moves too fast he’ll shatter something. Then he drops to his knees in front of meon the bed, hands gentle on my face even though his eyes are burning. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is low. Rough. Not mad at me. Mad at the situation. Mad at himself for not seeing it.
“I didn’t want you to worry. You were still taped up. Couldn’t lift anything heavy. Couldn’t ride hard. I thought I could handle it. I thought it was nothing at first.”
He exhales through his nose. “It’s not nothing. Someone’s been watching you. Texting you. Making you feel like this.” He thumbs under my eyes, wiping the tears I didn’t realize were falling. “You don’t handle shit alone, not anymore.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry. I know I should’ve told you sooner.”
“Don’t apologize.” He pulls me into his chest, arms locking around me tight. “You’re safe. You hear me? Nobody gets to scare you in our house. Nobody gets to make you sit here shaking.”
I cling to his shirt, face buried in his neck. He smells like soap and motor oil and him. Home. He kisses the top of my head. “Give me the phone.”
I hand it over without hesitation.
He opens the messages. Scrolls back to the first one. Takes screenshots of the whole thread, every text, every timestamp. Then he opens his contacts, hits Riot’s name, puts it on speaker.
Riot picks up fast. “Yeah?”
“Need you to run a trace,” Lucky says. No greeting. No bullshit. “Unknown number. Been texting Savannah since a week after I got shot. The latest one says he saw her in my hoodiethis morning. Knows what she’s wearing. I want the source. Location. Everything. Now.”
Riot doesn’t hesitate. “On it. Send me the screenshots. I’ll have something in an hour.”
Lucky ends the call and sets the phone down.
I look up at him. “What are you gonna do?”
He cups my face again. “What I do best. Protect what’s mine.” His thumb brushes my bottom lip. “He gets one warning. Delivered in person. After that… it depends on how stupid he wants to be.”
My stomach flips. Not scared of Lucky. Scared for whoever’s on the other end of those texts.
“You trust me?” he asks.
“More than anyone.”
“Then trust this. He’s done. Tonight he learns what happens when you fuck with my old lady.”
He kisses me once. Soft but possessive. “Go take a shower. Lock the door. I’m making calls, getting eyes on this. You don’t leave this house until I say it’s clear.”
I nod. Stand on shaky legs.
He stands with me, hand on my lower back the whole way to the bathroom like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. At the door he turns me to face him. “Look at me.” I do. “You’re mine, Firecracker. Nobody scares you. Nobody watches you. Nobody makes you feel small. Not while I’m breathing.”
I wrap my arms around his waist, press my face to his chest. “I know.”
“Good.” He kisses my forehead. “Now get in the shower. I’m handling this.”
He closes the door behind me. I hear his boots in the hallway. Low murmur of his voice on the phone again.
I turn on the water, hot as I can stand, and sink in. The fear doesn’t swallow me whole anymore. Because Lucky’s out there. And whoever’s sending those texts just picked the wrong old lady to fuck with.
