I shrugged, letting the blanket slip and pooling it at my waist. “You wanna run, or you wanna fight?”
Augustine laughed, that raw, broken sound. “You ask like there’s a difference.”
I looked away, embarrassed by how much I needed him to say the right thing. “My whole life it was run or get runover. I always figured you Bloody Scythes were supposed to be better than the Leatherbacks. Not just more efficient at being assholes.”
He hesitated, then came over and sat next to me, his knees almost touching mine. He looked at the mess we’d made—bloody towels, cigarette butts, the splinters in the floor where I’d left nail marks—and I saw something change in his face. Like maybe he was finally starting to believe I was real, not just another job or obligation.
“Want to know the real secret?” he said, voice low. “Nobody ever gets out clean. Not me, not you. Not anybody who ever loved a club or killed for one.”
I pulled my knees up to my chest, arms wrapped around them, and waited for him to finish.
“My old man was a Scythe,” he said. “Not like the ones now. Back then, it was all about respect, family, and keeping the cops off our backs. I was twelve when I watched him kill my mom.” His eyes didn’t waver. “That’s how I learned about loyalty.”
He didn’t sound sad or angry. Just tired. So tired it made my bones hurt.
We sat with that story, letting it gnaw through the silence. I didn’t know what to say, so I just reached out and laced my fingers through his, palm to palm, like kids hiding from the world under a sheet.
“I guess we’re both legacy cases,” I said, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. “Club kids who never learned how to want something else.”
He squeezed my hand, not letting go. “Maybe we get to want it now.”
A shaft of sunlight cut through the window, turning the dust in the air into a swirl of tiny, desperate angels. I watched Augustine watch the light, his face cycling through a dozen emotions—fear, hunger, hope, then back to fear again. He was holding on by the thinnest thread, and I was the only thing keeping him from slipping.
“Can I stay with you?” I asked, voice so soft I almost didn’t hear it myself.
He looked up, startled. “You mean… here? With me?”
I nodded, then forced myself to look him straight in the eye. “I don’t want to go back to Durango. Or the Leatherbacks. Or any of it. Even if it kills me, I’d rather try to live like this. Like us. Like people, not property.”
His mouth worked, trying to find words. He ended up just pulling me into his lap, arms crushing tight around my ribs, as if he let go, the whole universe would collapse.
“You sure?” he asked, voice trembling. “Because the Scythes aren’t any safer than the ‘Backs. Maybe worse.”
“I’m not looking for safe,” I said. “I’m looking for true.”
For a second, I saw the little boy inside him, the one who’d been forced to clean up after his father’s violence and never learned to stop. Then I saw the man, the one who’d bled for me and held me through the storm and let me bite his shoulder until I tasted blood. I liked them both. Maybe I loved them both, which was a sick joke the universe would appreciate.
“I’ll keep you,” Augustine said, grinning like he’d just pulled off a perfect bank job. “I’ll keep you until the world burns down.”
We sat there, fingers still woven together, and watched the dust motes turn gold in the rising sun. I knew the world would come looking. I knew there’d be blood and more running and maybe a body count nobody could keep up with. But for that moment, I belonged to something, and it belonged to me.
I wasn’t just a runaway, or a prize, or a bargaining chip. I was Melissa. I was Augustine’s. And for the first time in my life, I knew exactly what that meant.
Somewhere out there, the Leatherbacks were gearing up for war. The Scythes would answer. The cops would play dumb, and Durango would pretend not to notice the body bags stacking up on the border.
But in this cabin, in the cold light of morning, there was only the two of us.
I kissed him, slow and certain, and felt the promise in it like a brand.
The rest of the world could burn.
We’d build something out of the ashes.
13
Melissa
The next day, we were back on the road, still sticky from each other and running on maybe three hours of sleep and a collective blood alcohol level that would get us both banned from Utah. The sun was a chemical yellow, not quite enough to burn the crust of cold off my skin, and every mile made the world seem less real, like we’d stepped off into a version of earth that ran on gas fumes and dehydration. By the time we hit the edge of Los Alamos, I was hollowed out—barely hanging on behind Augustine as the bike chewed up asphalt, my hands barely gripping his hips, my eyes locked on the horizon and the next place we might die.
