Cash and Wyatt walk out of hearing range, their boots crunching on gravel, voices fading.
There’s something off here. This isn’t concern for a cherished sister. This isn’t brotherly protection.
This is just dollar signs where a heart should be.
The sound of horses being mounted carries through the thin walls. Hoof beats drum the earth, growing distant.
Then it’s me and the wilderness.
I keep still, thinking. Trying to sort out all the information I just learned. It doesn’t add up. Yet. But it will.
If I can get the fuck out of here.
Mercy.
My sister’s name hits like a bullet to the chest. Is she still at the trailer? Did she wake to find me gone? How many times has she already been left? I close my eyes, see her small frame curled on that new bed, BB gun clutched to her chest like a teddy bear. Nine years old and already knows better than to sleep without a weapon.
Did she try calling? Did she think I abandoned her again?
The rope gives another fraction. I twist harder.
Don't give up on me, Mercy. I'm coming home. I swear it.
Savannah's at the north ridge cabin. Marcus is keeping her there.Cleaningher. The words twist in my gut like a rusted blade. I've known men like Marcus my whole life—men who think money buys the right to break things. Rich boys who smile for cameras and keep trophies of their sins. Not like normal people. Normal people hurt each other in simple ways. Men like Marcus make art of it.
I pull against the rope, feeling skin tear. Blood trickles warm down my wrists.
What is he doing to her right now? What has he already done?
The rope gives a little more.
Three weeks. That's how long I've been out of prison.
Three fucking weeks of trying to be a man who keeps promises.
Who stays clean.
Who builds instead of burns.
"Never going back to prison," I'd told Mercy. Told myself.
But if Marcus touches Savannah again—if he's already done what Cash implied—I'll kill him slow.
I'll take my time. I'll make sure he feels everything.
And I'll go back to Whitefall with his blood still under my nails.
Another twist. Another tear of skin.
I test the tension in the restraints. Feel the fibers starting to give.
I'm going to walk out of here.
The only question is how much blood it'll take.
Mine. Theirs. Everyone's.
There's a storm building in my chest—not thunder, but something older. Something patient. The kind of violence that doesn't need to announce itself. The kind that simply arrives, like dawn.
Inevitable.
Silent.
Mine.
