He looks at me then, good hand reaching up to stroke my hair, smile small, and his eyes full of sadness.
Oh.
“They threatened to do the same to you. And other things that...” He shudders and shakes his head. “They’d do it too.” He holds up his hand. “It wasn’t an idle threat. So I signed overour house and swore not to say anything to anyone.” He pulls me against him, and I let him. Too stunned to object, and I’m not sure I would anyway.
I wrap my arms around his waist and let him hold me like he used to, back when he could soften my heartache with a good tight hug. If only that would work now.
Eventually we step back, and I feel lost. Adrift from my life in a way I haven’t felt since mum died. “How long do we have?” I know he said the end of the week, but I need specifics. Part of me still wants to fight this, but I don’t want to die or lose any body parts. And as surreal as it seems, I believe him when he says they weren’t just threats. How can I not?
“We have to be out by Sunday night. They said they’d pay us market value for any furniture left in the house.”
“How fucking generous,” I scoff, but at least it’s something. If they stick to their word on this too, then at least we’ll get a little out of this. My mum had an eye for antiques, and I doubt Dad will be able to take much with him on such short notice. “They couldn’t give us more time to get everything sorted?”
“No. They were insistent that we be gone by then.”
We stand there in silence. What else is there to say? I still can’t believe this is happening, but when I catch sight of his bandaged hand, it hits me all over again.
We’ve lost our house.
Our home.
“Where will we go?” I hate how small my voice sounds, how young, but I can’t help it. I’m twenty-five years old, but in that moment, I don’t feel it.
“My brother has room for us both.” He winces as he says it.
Despite everything, a bitter laugh escapes. “No fucking way.”
“Morgan—”
“No.” I point a finger at him. “How can you even suggest that after what he called me?” And fine, he might not have calledme afucking faggotto my face, but he hadn’t been quiet about it either. The whole room had heard him telling my dad exactly what he thought.
“I know it’s not ideal, but we don’t have much choice.”
“I’d rather live on the street.” I take a moment to think about that, to see if I’m just spouting words or if I actually mean it. And yep, no part of me wants to step foot under that arsehole’s roof.
“Just think about it, okay?”
I nod, even though my mind’s made up.
“But don’t take too long.”
Because we only have five fucking days.
I’m showered, dressed, and out the door as fast as fucking possible. I just need to get out of there.
My bike waits for me in the garage, a Dyna like Lynx Harper’s but nowhere near as new or as flash. I restored that baby all by myself. Took me four years, parts aren’t cheap, but I did it, and I’ve never been more thankful as I start her engine and escape the house that used to be my home.
My safe place.
Now it’s just another thing that’s been taken from me.
4
LYNX
“Incoming.”Callum points to the compound gates as three bikes roll up outside, waiting to be let in. We heard them about a mile out and it’s always a tense time as we wait for them to arrive. Doubly so when you’re tired.
It’s barely past sunrise, and neither of us have slept.
