Page 2 of My Girl to Take

“Logan,” he calls after me, his voice rougher now, almost pleading.

I pause for half a second, just long enough for the hurt to settle deep. Enough to remember every version of him that never would have done this. Then I keep walking. I don’t stop until I’m out in the hallway. The door closes behind me with a quiet click that somehow sounds louder than anything we just said.

And it’s done. I don’t want to pack any of my clothes. My father has just reminded me that nothing is really mine since I didn’t earn it. Good riddance. As I make my way toward the front of the house, my steps steady despite the storm raging inside me, I barely notice the small figure standing near the staircase until I’m almost past her.

Kiera.

She’s watching me with wide, uncertain green eyes. Her small hands are clasped tightly in front of her like she’s not sure if she should say something or stay quiet. And for a moment, I just look at her, trying to place her in the middle of everything that just happened.

She’s never been a problem. Never been anything, really, beyond a quiet presence in the house. So I give her a brief nod, more out of habit than anything else, and keep moving.

By the time I reach my car, the hurt has settled into something colder, something heavier. I yank the door open, sliding into the driver’s seat with a sharp exhale as I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. If I could, I’d leave the car behind, but I need it to get away from here.

I don’t look back at the house. I’m just about to start the engine when I hear footsteps, quick and uneven. Before I can react, there’s a small knock on the window. I turn, irritation flaring for a split second before I see her again.

Kiera.

She’s slightly out of breath. Her reddish-brown hair is a little messy, like she ran the whole way, holding something in both hands and clutching it carefully like it matters.

I roll the window down a few inches, frowning slightly. “What is it?”

She doesn’t answer right away, just holds something out toward me. It takes me a second to recognize it. And when I do, everything else fades. A photograph, framed, the wood chipped at one corner but unmistakable—my mother, smiling softly, holding me as a baby.

My chest tightens, grief and hurt hitting me right in the middle of everything else. I reach for it without thinking, my fingers brushing hers briefly as I take it.

“I…you left it,” she says quietly, her voice small but steady. “I thought you’d want it.”

I stare at the photo, my throat closing as memories I don’t usually let myself sit with push forward, uninvited and relentless.

“Yeah,” I murmur finally, my voice rougher than I expect. “I do.”

I glance up at her then, really looking at her this time, taking in her anxious stare. “Thank you,” I say, the words simple but genuine.

She nods quickly, then steps back. I don’t say anything else. I just roll the window back up, start the engine, and pull away from the house without looking back. This time, I don’t hesitate. As the gates close behind me, sealing that part of my life off for good, I make myself one promise, cold and absolute.

I’m not coming back. Not for him. Not for anyone.

Chapter One

Kiera

Seventeen years later

The number comes up at ten past six on a Thursday, and I answer it because Jax never calls. Jax texts. Jax sends photographs of cars I have no use for and captions them with insults. In four years, he’s called me twice, and both times somebody was in a hospital.

“Tell me you’re sitting down,” he says.

“I’m at my desk.” I close the laptop. Outside the window, London has already given up on the day, the way it does in November. “Which is sitting down.”

“Somebody came looking for you.”

I don’t answer.

“A woman. Showed up at the shop in Culver City, knew my name, and wanted to know if I knew you. Left a number.”

I stand, reaching for my jacket. “Good for her.”

“Logan.”