The neighbors blur. The world narrows to her weight in my arms.
The Ducati growls back to life, vibration shaking through both of us. I kick it into gear, feel her fist clutch at my jacket like she’s holding on to more than just me.
I don’t look back at Sunrise Gardens. Evan Cook can crawl out on his own… or not.
Mary’s all that matters.
And as the bike roars into the Vegas night, the only thought left in my head is this:
I don’t save people. I end them. That’s the rule. So why the hell am I breaking it for her?
35
Mary
After. Somehow, I’m still here.
The water runs hot. Too hot. My hands are pink from scrubbing, but I keep going, lathering, rinsing, lathering again, because the smell won’t leave.
I can still feel him. Evan. His weight, his breath, his voice in my ear. Anton ripped him away, but my skin won’t stop crawling, like the memory has seeped inside me where soap can’t reach.
I stare at my hands. My wrists. Red marks already surfacing. Fingerprints. A claim. My stomach turns. I bend forward, breathing hard, gagging on air. For a second, I think I’ll throw up.
I want to tear my skin off. I want to disappear.
But Evan’s voice echoes in my skull like someone left a radio on too loud.
Nobody wants you but me.
Who else would even look at you?
Ungrateful. Boring. Lucky I didn’t leave sooner.
Six years. Six years of that. Of swallowing those words and smiling anyway. Of twisting myself small enough to fit inside the box he built for me. Six years of thinking—no, of believing—he was right.
My ribs feel too small for my heartbeat. Memory pulls me all the way back to being twelve years old, sitting outside school while kids laughed because no one picked me up on time. Because I was invisible. Forgettable. Disposable.
Through the door, muffled, I hear Anton’s voice. Steady, low.
“Good. Hold him there.” A measured pause. “Yeah. Breathing.”
Another silence, shorter this time.
“She’s okay. Got to her in time.”
In time.The words slice through me. Because he’s right. If he’d been later—just one more minute—Evan would have—
I shake my head hard, like I can knock the thought out before it finishes. But my body knows. My stomach knows.
The low murmur dies. A rustle, then the sharp snap of the call ending. Leather shifts as he slides the phone back into his pocket.
Now it’s quiet. Too quiet.
Except, not really.
Because I hear him… those boots. Heavy, deliberate. Each step closer across tile. Slow, steady, like he knows I can’t run.
They stop. Right outside the door.
