There’s a beat of silence. Not long, but long enough to feel her concern travel through the line.
“Ethan… what’s going on?”
Her tone sharpens in that subtle, maternal way that means she’s already imagining worst-case scenarios. “Is someone hurt? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I say—reflex, automatic. “It’s not me. Just… trust me. Don’t bring her back yet. Please.”
Another pause. Longer this time. I can almost picture her sitting at the kitchen counter, hand over her chest, trying to decide whether to push.
“Sweetheart,” she says gently, “I can hear it in your voice. Something’s wrong.”
I close my eyes, inhale once to steady myself. “Mum. Please.”
That does it.
Her sigh is soft but full of worry. “All right, darling. We’ll keep her here. As long as she needs. Just promise you’ll call if—”
“I will.”
“You always say that,” she murmurs, but the edge in her voice fades. “Take care of yourself, Ethan.”
“I will. Thank you.”
I hang up before she can ask anything else—because if she does, I might actually tell her.
Then I grab my keys. My jacket.
And the weapon safe.
The familiar weight of the Glock steadies something in me—something cold, something I haven’t let breathe in years. The part of me built for hunting men who mean harm.
Because if Lucky’s stalker knows where she is?
I’ll find him first.
And if I do…
God help me—
He’ll never touch her again.
Not while I’m still breathing.
Not while I still remember what it feels like to end someone who deserves it.
I’m not proud of the things my hands have done.
But for her?
I’d do worse.
I’m out the door the second I push the gun into my shoulder holster, crossing the small stretch of bushes between our houses so fast branches whip against my arms. Her place sits dark, every curtain drawn so tightly it looks like the house is holding its breath.
Yesterday morning, it felt lived in. Warm. Hers.Now it feels… off.
I take the porch steps in two strides and knock hard.
“Lucky?”
