Titan exhales through his nose, the edge easing just slightly.
“Well,” he says after a beat, “about time you found yourself a woman who’s as ruthless as my Lily.”
43
ROWAN
Justin opens the wardrobe and pulls out a small duffel, the kind used when a person doesn’t plan to be gone long. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him pack, my hands folded in my lap, my body too still.
There’s a rhythm to it. Efficient. Purposeful. A man who knows exactly what he needs when things turn dark.
His clothes first. They’re dark, practical. Then the smaller things—charger, a comb, some cash folded into the inner pocket. He doesn’t look at me while he does it, and somehow that makes my fear spike.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say finally.
He pauses, just for a fraction of a second, then keeps moving. “I do.”
I swallow. “This isn’t your fight.”
That makes him stop. He turns then, slow, deliberate, eyes finding mine like he’s searching for something.
My chest tightens as he tells me they’re close to cracking this wide open. Close enough that the pieces are finally lining up, that names are turning into faces and hiding places are running out.
And all I can think is that none of this would exist if I hadn’t ended up on his doorstep.
There wouldn’t be a trail to follow. No men being hunted down in the dark. What happened to my sister would have stayed buried under paperwork and polite silence, filed away as something unfortunate and unfixable.
The fact that they’re chasing every lead—every man who had a hand in that night, no matter how small their role—does something to me that I can’t put into words. It hurts. It steadies me. It cracks something open in my chest that I didn’t realise had calcified.
For the first time, it feels like what was taken from us matters enough for the world to answer for it.
Justin’s jaw tightens. “We have a lead on the third man. We believe the driver was Dean Stockton’s son.”
The room tilts slightly.
“He’s Scott-Evans’s cousin,” Justin continues. “He’s been in hiding for years, but we’ll find him.”
I close my eyes briefly. The pieces slide together with a sick, seamless logic.
“That makes sense,” I say. “I never saw him. He stayed in the car. Someone was driving that car, but I never saw his face.”
Justin steps closer. “We’ll find him.”
My voice drops. “This is my fight, Justin. Missy’s fight. I won’t drag you into it.”
He reaches me then. Takes my face in his hands, firm but careful, thumbs warm against my jaw.
“You didn’t drag me anywhere, Rowan. This became my fight the moment you became part of me.”
My breath stutters.
“I don’t do halfway,” he continues. “I don’t stand at the edge while the person I love bleeds in the middle of it.”
The word spreads through me like warmth, slow and consuming, igniting something I didn’t realise had gone cold.
“I will stop at nothing,” he promises softly, “to give you the closure you need. And Missy the justice she deserves.”
Something in me breaks open. Not loudly. Just enough to hurt.
