Page 57 of Break Me

Me: I’m breathing. That counts for something.

Three dots appear immediately.

Disappear.

Reappear.

Raven: I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t care what my father or Knox tries to do. I’m not going anywhere.

A slow breath leaves my chest, and I sink back onto the bed, thumb hovering over the screen.

Me: I don’t want you in the middle of this.

Raven: Too late.

A ghost of a smile pulls at my mouth, gone just as fast.

I type back.

Me: I’m going to fix this. For you. For us. Even if it takes me rebuilding my whole damn life from the ground up.

Her reply comes softer than I expect.

Raven: You already have a life. I’m in it.

I don’t know where I’ll land when the dust clears. I don’t know what the club will look like when they decide I’ve paid enough. And I don’t know how much worse things are going to get before they get better.

But I do know this. Whatever storm is coming, I’m not letting it touch her. If I have to stand between Raven and the world until there’s nothing left of me but blood and bone, then so be it.

I’d make that choice again.

Every time.

Raven

It’s been three weeks since I left Samuel alone in the clubhouse. Each day, he pulls away a little more. Not in big, obvious ways. Not enough that anyone else would notice. But I do.

He texts less. His messages are shorter. More careful.

When I see him across a room, our eyes lock for half a second before he looks away. When I pass him in the hallway, he shifts just enough to give me space, like proximity itself is a violation.

Like he’s already practicing letting go.

The thought makes my chest ache.

I tell myself I can handle it. That distance is safer. That this is only temporary. But every day without him feels like I’m being slowly erased from his life.

The clubhouse is busy today, louder than usual, with engines cycling in and out and voices bouncing off concrete walls. Everyone’s on high alert.

I didn’t plan to be here. My plan was to spend the afternoon doing some retail therapy, but Knox insisted on coming with me, so my shopping was short-lived. On the way home, he said he needed to stop at the clubhouse. He didn’t ask, and I didn’t argue. Silently, I prayed Samuel would be there.

While Knox is busy with a few of the guys, I wander over to the garage. That’s when I see him. He’s bent over an engine, sleeves pushed up, grease streaked across his forearms.

I lean against the doorframe and watch him. The way his shoulders tense when someone passes too close. The way his eyes track movement without him realizing it. Like he’s bracing for an impact that never quite comes.

“Are you going to keep pretending I’m not here,” I ask, “or do you want to talk?”

He stills. Then, straightens slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says carefully.