Welcome!

Hey friends,

It’s finally here—the final installment of James & Annelly’s love story! 🖤

Broken Salvation picks up right where Broken Resolve left off. If you haven’t read Book 1 (Broken Misery) or Book 2 (Broken Resolve) yet, I recommend starting with Book 1 to get the full emotional punch.

Thanks for trusting me with your heart. Now let’s see how far James and Annelly will go to fight for their love.

— Ariana

P.S. Are you new to the Broken Redemption Series ? You can start with James & Annelly Book 1 ( Broken Misery ) or with Lucas & Emilia Book 1 ( Broken Vows ) —both are complete entry points into the series.

✨ New chapters in ongoing stories land every Tuesday & Thursday at 3:00 PM EST.

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Prologue

James

(Ten Years Ago)

The first sound is a choke—sharp, strangled—followed by the thud of something hitting the wall.

I’m out of my bed before I’m fully awake, crossing the short hall in three long strides. Tyler’s door is half-open, the cheap apartment A/C barely cutting through the thick August heat. Sweat beads along my spine. The floorboards creak under my weight, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s too far under.

“Tyler.” My voice comes out calmer than I feel. Nothing like the panic slamming against my ribs. “Hey. Ty, wake up.”

He thrashes against the thin sheets, breath sawing in and out like he’s drowning. His legs kick at nothing. His fists are clenched tight near his chest, knuckles white, elbows locked like he’s trying to defend himself in his sleep. The sounds coming out of him—soft cries, broken words—rip straight through me.

“Tyler.” I step closer. “It’s me. You’re safe. Wake up, kid.”

His head jerks to the side, face wet, lashes clumped with tears and sweat. He whimpers, “No, no, stop—”

And that’s when my heart nearly ruptures. I drop to my knees beside the bed.

I don’t grab him. The warning from his social worker runs through my head on a loop:

“You don’t touch a kid mid-nightmare unless you want them waking up swinging or sobbing. You talk first. You stay calm. You let your voice be the rope they can use to climb back out.”

“Ty, I’m right here.” My hands hover beside his arm, not touching, but close enough that he should feel the shift in the mattress. “You’re home. You’re safe. Come back to me.”

His breathing stutters. His body jerks. And then—finally—his eyes fly open.

For a second, he doesn’t see me. He still sees whatever hell was tormenting him. His gaze darts around the room, wild and unfocused, searching for an escape before someone grabs him again. His chest rises and falls too fast. He’s trembling so hard the bedsprings squeal beneath him.

“Hey.” I keep my voice soft, even though my throat feels like it’s closing in on itself. “It’s me. It’s James.”

Recognition hits him like a punch. His whole body goes rigid except for the shaking. He scrubs a hand across his face so hard it smears the tears sideways. Then he turns away, shoulders curling inward, spine folding like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Like he’s trying to hide the crying, the fear—and the fact that he needs me.

I recognize the pattern by now.

Shame. It’s always shame first.

After that… comes anger.

“Leave me alone.” The words come out tight, bitter at the edges. “I don’t need you.”

He tries to shove himself farther away, but he’s still tangled in the sheets. His arm knocks against mine, and he recoils like my touch burned him.

I swallow hard—using every ounce of strength and patience I have to stay still. To stay steady. Just like the fucking court-appointed therapist keeps preaching.

“You were having a nightmare,” I say. “I just came to—”

“I said leave me alone.” His voice cracks, and he flinches like he hates himself for it. “You don’t have to come in here every time.”

The words sting—sharp and painful—but I bury it. The anger isn’t meant for me. It’s for the memories. The people who left scars I can’t see. The world that hurt him long before I got him back.

“I’m here because I care. Because I wanted to remind you you’re safe,” I tell him quietly. “I’m here for you, Ty. Always.”

That’s when he snaps.

His head whips toward me, eyes blazing with something far too old and damaged for someone who’s only fourteen.

“No. You’re not. Because I don’t want you. I don’t need you.”

“Ty…” My voice frays for the first time all night. “I swear to God, I’m here. I’m right fucking here.”

“For now.” His mouth twists. “Let’s not kid ourselves. You’re not staying. No one ever does.” His breathing spikes, anger sharpening with every word. “You’ll say you’re trying to help, that you know what I need or what’s best for me. And then, when you figure out you have no fucking clue—”

He sucks in a shaking breath.

“—you’ll get tired of me. You’ll send me back. Make me someone else’s problem.”

His chin trembles, but his glare dares me to notice.

“So fuck you. I don’t fucking need you.”

For a second, all the air leaves my lungs. Not because I believe him—but because I can hear the truth under every syllable.

The terror.

The desperation.

The certainty that he’s unlovable.

Too much.

Too broken.

The certainty that I’ll eventually agree.

And it’s that—the way he believes it like it’s carved into stone—that shatters something in me. Because I know exactly what that feels like. But unlike me, he sure as fuck doesn’t deserve to feel like that.

“Tyler,” I manage, but it comes out rough. Strained.

He shakes his head hard, like it’s enough to block me out.

“Don’t. Don’t pretend this is real. Like we’re some happy fucking family.” His voice wobbles—barely noticeable unless you’re listening for it. “You want me here out of some twisted sense of obligation. But you don’t even know me. You sure as hell don’t know what to do with me. So let’s knock this shit off and call it the failed experiment it is. Right now. Once and for all.”

“Tyler… I’m trying here—”

“Well, you can stop,” he snaps, cutting me off. “Just fucking stop. I’m not some stupid kid. I know how this goes.”

His hands curl into fists on his lap. His shoulders hitch like he’s holding his breath to keep the tears from coming back. But his eyes—God, his eyes—shine, glassy with misery he refuses to acknowledge.

“You’ll get sick of me,” he throws at me again. “All of this. The nightmares. The attitude. The… everything. You’ll get tired, and then you’ll decide you don’t want to deal with it. With me. And then I’ll be right back where I started.”

His voice cracks wide open.

“Alone and on my own.”

Something inside me snaps.

“Tyler.” I’m not calm anymore. My voice doesn’t rise out of anger—it rises out of heartbreak. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever fucking say that.”

He flinches, but he holds my gaze, glaring through the tears he refuses to let fall.

“Why the hell not? It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.” His chin trembles. “People say they want to help. Then they leave. They always leave.”

He drags the back of his hand across his nose like he’s trying to wipe away more than tears—like he’s trying to wipe away the years of being passed around, pushed aside, neglected, and forgotten.

“You’ll leave too,” he whispers. “So what’s the point of all this? What’s the point of trusting you? What’s the point of getting used to you being here? Why should I listen to anything you say?”

I stare at him, and for a moment the room blurs around the edges.

Not just from tears.

But from fury.

From grief.

From the knowledge that my fourteen-year-old kid brother has learned the hard way, that the world doesn’t care.

And because at least in this… I agree with him.

But I’m not like the rest of the world. I guarantee I’m nothing like anyone he’s ever met.

“Tyler.” My voice breaks, yet hardens all the same. “I. Am. Not Them.”

“But you will be,” he murmurs. “Because that’s what they all say at first. And it’s nothing but more bullshit lies.”

And that’s when my patience finally fractures—not into anger at him … but into a desperate, devastating, terrified need to make him understand.

“Look at me,” I say, sharper now, every calm technique those therapists and social workers preached burning away under the weight of my frustration. “Ty. Look at me.”

He does. Defiantly. Angrily. His eyes narrow to slits of fury, daring me to prove him wrong.

And that’s when I feel it—the exact moment we cross a line we can’t uncross.

The exact moment everything that defines us changes forever.

I take a breath. Not a steady one. Not a calm one.

A shaking, gutted, furious breath.

“Listen to me,” I say, voice calm but sharp enough to cut. “I don’t give a damn what anyone else did to you. I don’t care who left. I don’t care who failed you.”

His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t look away.

“I’m not them.” The words scrape out of my chest, raw and bleeding. “I will never—ever—be them.”

He scoffs under his breath, a humorless, heartbroken sound. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

“Yeah? Well, here’s what I say—and you better fucking hear me.”

I lean forward, close enough that he can’t ignore the conviction in my voice or the determination in my eyes.

“I won’t leave you. Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Not next month or next year. Not ever.”

His throat bobs. He tries to hide the fact that my words mean something.

I refuse to let him.

“You think I’m that weak? That soft? That I’d send you back because I’m tired of you? Because—like me—you have the uncanny ability to act like an asshole? Fuck that.”

I push to my feet, hands braced on my hips as I fight the fury burning through my veins.

This kid thinks he understands what it’s like to hate the world? To be so angry you’d gladly burn the whole damn thing down—even if it takes you with it?

No.

He has no goddamn clue.

What he feels—what he thinks—doesn’t have shit on the monster that lives inside me.

“You better strap the fuck in, kid. Because I’m your big brother. And you are my responsibility. It’s my job to love you. To be there for you. To support you. To take care of you and protect you—regardless of your foul mouth, your nightmares, or your hatred of me and this little experiment we find ourselves in.”

I stop pacing.

Then, with an angry glare that would send most of my opponents in the cage trembling, I declare:

“I will never, ever give up on you. I will never, ever make you someone else’s problem.”

His breathing picks up again—faster, sharper—like my words are affecting him in ways he wasn’t prepared for and desperately wishes they wouldn’t.

“Like it or not, we are bound by blood and a shitty past, which means we’re stuck with each other. Which is why I can look you in the eye and, serious as fuck, swear to you—”

My voice cracks, though it’s still all bone and steel.

“I will never let anyone hurt you. I will never let anyone take you from me. I will protect you, Tyler. With everything I am. With everything I have. With every last breath in my fucking body.”

I stop—catching my breath, swallowing down the lump of emotion threatening to choke me.

“I choose you , Ty.”

The words come out rough, torn from somewhere deep.

“ You. No matter what, I will always choose you. Because you are my little brother. Because you are my family. Now and always. And there is nothing— nothing —that will ever change that.“

Not now.

Not ever.

I’m making that choice right here, right now—Tyler will always come first.

No matter what it costs me.

I owe him that… after what I let happen to him.

❤️

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# Chapter 1

Annelly

"He was last seen yesterday afternoon, when he was dropped off at the campus apartment. He knew he was to call the security team for an escort if he planned to leave, but he never did. Security feeds show him walking out of the building alone around 9:30 last night. He never returned. His phone was found shattered six blocks away. To this point, the team onsite hasn't been able to locate him."

The room tilts.

Not because I move—but because the oxygen vanishes all at once, sucked through some unseen crack in the floor.

"As of forty minutes ago, our counterparts in Philadelphia filed a missing persons report with the local authorities."

And then, like the universe itself cues it, every head turns to look at James.

Every single one of them holds their breath.

Waiting. Watching. Bracing.

James doesn't react at all.

And that stillness—that awful, unnatural, suffocating stillness—is somehow more terrifying than anything. Because I've seen James angry. I've seen him scared. I've seen him hurting. Anxious. Bleeding.

But this?

This frozen, hollow, soul-collapsing quiet—

It feels like watching a man stand on the edge of a cliff, right before he decides to fall. Right before he surrenders. Right before he resigns himself to letting the world swallow him whole.

And then, just as I reach for him, he moves.

A sudden, violent burst like something inside him has snapped loose.

The chair he'd been sitting on goes flying, crashing against the wall with a splintering crack. Everything within reach follows. Paper. Coffee mugs. Files. The laptop nearly hits the ground, but Dominick lunges and catches it midair.

The room erupts.

"James—" several voices call out, but it's already too late.

He's across the room in seconds, ripping open the weapons cabinet, snatching his holster, his keys, the handgun he hasn't touched once since we arrived at the safe house. And then he's moving toward the door like a man on a mission, his expression carved from fury and terror in equal parts, daring anyone to try stopping him.

Zeb lunges first, grabbing his arm, but James jerks back with a force that rattles my bones.

"Move." It isn't a shout. It isn't even a command. It's a feral, gutted sound—raw in a way I've never heard from him.

Dominick is there in an instant, braced in front of the exit. James slams into him shoulder-first, hard enough to make the walls shake.

And then everything happens at once.

James's fists are flying.

Zeb and Dominick are grappling with him—not to hurt him, but to restrain him, contain him, keep him grounded—but James fights like a man possessed. A drowning man. A man willing to tear apart the world, including the people he cares about, if it means getting to his brother.

Deep down, I know he isn't trying to hurt them. He's just trying to get to Tyler. Trying to save the only family he's ever had.

But all I can see—all my brain registers—is the violence. The tension. The collision of bodies. The sickening thud of fists meeting flesh.

And the blood...

Zeb's split lip.

Dom's torn brow.

James's knuckles—old wounds ripped open yet again.

And in James's face, there isn't a single trace of the man I know. His expression is monstrous—twisted in rage and agony and terror. His disregard for the men he calls his brothers would be terrifying... if I didn't understand exactly what this is.

This is James afraid.

This is James destroyed.

This is James the big brother, terrified and unraveling, desperate to save the boy he swore to protect with his life.

"Calm the fuck down," Dominick grits out, arms locked around James's torso as he tries to haul him back.

James doesn't calm. If anything, he fights harder—like a drowning man who thrashes more violently the closer he comes to the surface. His movements are wild, frantic, fueled by a terror so blistering hot it has nowhere to go but outward.

"Let me go!" he roars, twisting, shoving, trying to tear free. "He's out there—he's out there alone—he needs—I need—"

His voice breaks under the weight of a truth he cannot speak.

Dominick braces harder. Zeb digs in. And still James pushes, muscles trembling, desperation pouring off him in waves I can feel from across the room.

My chest seizes. My throat closes. My body starts shaking without my permission as I watch in horror, powerless to stop any of it.

"James—" Zeb warns, harder now. "Pull it together. This isn't the way. You are not going anywhere without—"

James snaps forward in a violent lunge that sends Dominick stumbling. With no other choice, Zeb and Dom drive him to the floor with a sickening thud, pinning him down as he thrashes beneath their weight.

The sounds that rip out of him—wounded, furious, terrified—stab straight into my heart.

Suddenly, I can't take it.

I can't watch him tear himself apart. I can't watch them hold him down. I can't watch him suffer for one more second.

"Stop!" I scream. The word rips out of me—shrill, raw, pitched with all the anguish shredding me alive.

The effect is instant.

James freezes mid-thrash.

Mid-breath.

Mid-fight.

He just 
stops.

His chest heaves once—twice—shuddering. And then his eyes lock on mine, wide and wild, like he's begging me to understand something even he can't articulate.

Zeb loosens his grip first—slow, cautious—his hand still braced on James's shoulder in case he surges again. Dominick shifts back as well, one knee planted beside him as he gradually releases pressure.

The only sound in the room is the three of them catching their breath.

Though he's free, James doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Doesn't even breathe like a normal person.

He just lies there, staring at me from the floor. Those eyes that were wild a second ago—now empty. Vacant in a way that sends terror slicing clean through my chest.

He looks like a man who's just realized his world has been irreparably broken. Like someone beaten. Like some vital piece of him snapped loose and is now hanging by a single, fraying thread.

"James," Zeb says quietly, hesitant, like he's afraid one wrong word will detonate him again. "You with us? You good?"

Nothing.

James doesn't blink.

The silence stretches, tight and unbearable. Even Ben, Lucas, and Owen—still on the computer screen—sit frozen, worry etched into every line of their faces.

Like a moth drawn to flame, I take a small step forward, my body pulled by something instinctive and aching. 

"James..." My voice cracks. "Can you please look at me?"

He does. 

Slowly. Mechanically. 

His eyes shift toward me, focusing for the first time like my voice just punched a tiny hole through the fog. And the moment our eyes lock... something in him changes.

Unfortunately, not in the way I hoped.

Instead of softening, his entire posture tightens—a brutal, jarring snap of tension that pulls his features taut with something sharp and blistering.

It stops me cold.

As he pushes to his feet, Zeb and Dominick rise with him, bodies tense, ready to restrain him again. But it's wasted effort because this time, it isn't them he's fighting.

No.

This time the fury—the terror-driven, bone-deep panic—is pointed straight at me.

When he speaks, he sounds nothing like the man I love.

"Don't even think about it."

There's no wobble in his voice now. Just raw fury honed to a blade. His chest heaves once, and then he's pointing at me, eyes blazing with a rage born out of terror so big it eats a person whole.

"Don't you fucking dare, Annelly. Don't even think about going back to him," he growls, the sound low and vicious, ripped straight from his chest. "I swear to God—if you try, if you even move toward that door—"

He steps closer like he's ready to stop me with his bare hands, his voice edged in violence born only from fear.

"I'm not letting him take you," he snaps, voice cracking with anger, not pain. "I'm not letting you throw yourself at that motherfucker. I'm not losing you, too. Not now. Not fucking ever."

He's shaking with it—pure, blinding, desperate rage—and when Zeb presses a hand to his chest to stop him from coming closer, James whips toward him like he'll tear through anyone standing between us. 

Then, as if realizing Zeb is only protecting me, he forces himself still. Barely. Choosing instead to issue a warning.

"If she so much as looks at that fucking door," he spits, voice booming through the room, "you restrain her. Do you hear me? You tie her the fuck down if you have to. I don't care if she fights. I don't care if she screams. I don't care if she ends up hating me. She. Does. Not. Leave."

Then his eyes cut back to me—burning, consuming, wild.

"She doesn't go to him," he snarls. "She doesn't get to fucking try. I won't let her."

It's dominance, not malice. 

It's terror masquerading as control. 

But my body doesn't know the difference.

After Victor...

The second his voice hits that pitch, that command, something cold and familiar slams into my spine. My breath stutters. My palms go icy. And before I can stop myself, my feet shift back—a reflex I hate, a reflex carved into me by a man who weaponized fear just like this.

And I see the exact moment James registers it.

His face goes white. 

His chest caves like something vital breaks loose inside him. 

And his eyes, already broken, shatter completely.

But in the state he's in, he doesn't apologize. He doesn't reach for me. He doesn't even try to fix it.

He can't.

Zeb steps toward him. "James—"

But James doesn't hear him. His gaze stays locked on me, devastation etched into every line of his face.

And then—he turns away.

No warning.

No words.

No explanation.

He just pivots, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, and walks toward the door like he's desperate to escape the room... or maybe himself.

"James—" Zeb tries again, but only with his voice.

James doesn't stop. Not until Dominick steps in front of him, hand raised.

"Give me your gun."

For a heartbeat, no one moves.

The room holds its breath.

Then, to my utter shock, James pulls the weapon from his holster and hands it over without a word. And with that, he walks out, slamming the door behind him with a force that vibrates through my chest like an aftershock.

I stumble forward, breath catching in my throat as every cell in my body screams at me to go to him. My hand flies to the doorknob—ready to chase him into whatever darkness he's running toward.

But Zeb steps in front of me.

"Annelly." He sets a steady, grounding hand on my shoulder, his voice unbearably gentle. "Let him go, Nell."

My heart fractures.

"But—" The word barely escapes before my throat closes. "Zeb, he—he needs—"

"I know." His gaze softens in a way that guts me. "But you can't reach him right now. None of us can. He needs a minute to work through this on his own. Only when he's ready can we help him."

I want to argue. To insist he's wrong. But the lump in my throat won't let me.

Because he's right.

God... I know he's exactly right.

But then why does it feel like I'm abandoning him when my hand falls away from the door?

I move to the window instead. The same window where, just an hour ago, I watched him preparing the soil for the daffodils. He'd been so light then. So warm. Smiling at me with so much love it radiated through the glass.

And now—

James storms down the porch steps, movements sharp and uncoordinated, driven purely by instinct and agony. He reaches the treeline, and there... he simply 
breaks.

His body buckles inward, collapsing as if the invisible weight he's been carrying finally crushes through him. He falls to his knees—hard—gravel skittering beneath him in a scatter of sound that cracks straight through my ribs.

My breath lodges painfully high in my chest as a raw, screaming sob tears out of him.

And I stand there, helpless, watching the man I love—the fighter who never quits, who would go to the ends of the world to protect the people he loves—give up, fold in on himself, and fall apart on the forest floor.

❤️

 
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Chapter 2

Annelly

My hand clamps over my mouth. A sound—half gasp, half cry—catches in my throat, refusing to come out. I press my forehead to the cold windowpane, breath fogging the glass, as the man I love breaks apart in a way I’ve never seen. In a way I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forget.

The guilt hits first—sharp and blinding.

Then the helplessness, settling heavy in my bones until my knees shake under the weight.

And then something deeper takes over. A grief so raw it scalds. Because as I watch him collapse beneath a wound he’s carried his entire life—a wound that’s now ripped open and bleeding because of me—I feel every ounce of his pain like it’s my own.

I should go to him.

I should push past Zeb, run down those steps, drop into the dirt beside him. Beg him to look at me, to forgive me. Or at the very least, hold him until the world stops spinning.

But my feet don’t move.

Because I can’t breathe.

Because in a moment that matters, in a moment where he needs me most, I’m suddenly terrified to face the wreckage I caused.

A warm, solid presence appears beside me, as though he knew the exact second I started to spiral.

Zeb.

He doesn’t touch me. He just stands there, watching out the window with me, a quiet, steadying anchor in a storm that feels strong enough to rip James and me apart.

“Annelly.” His voice is gentle, careful in that way men get when they don’t know what to do with a woman who’s crying. “We should give him a minute. I know it’s not easy. But he needs this. The best thing we can do for him right now is go back to that table and figure out how to help them both. Finding Tyler. Making sure he’s okay. That’s how we help James.”

The words land like a lifeline tossed into raging water, and I grab on with the desperation of someone drowning.

I swallow hard and nod. Then I force myself to turn away from the window, wiping at tears that won’t stop coming. Walking away feels like tearing something vital out of my chest. Like some part of me refuses to be separated from the broken, grieving man outside.

Zeb stays beside me. His presence is a quiet kind of strength, making it possible to keep moving. He doesn’t steer me or guide me with a hand on my back, something I’m strangely grateful for. He simply walks with me, matching my pace, offering steady, silent support.

When we reach the table, I notice Dominick at the weapons cabinet, sliding James’s gun back inside. He closes it with a soft click and locks it. No theatrics. No commentary. Just a simple, deliberate action that says everything.

This is how we protect James.

This is how we move forward.

Dominick returns to his seat, jaw tight, eyes flicking once toward the window as if checking James is still there. Only then does he settle, shoulders squaring with a different kind of tension, one that says he’s ready to work.

The computer screen glows at the center of the table. Ben, Lucas, and Owen are still there, waiting. Grim-faced. Focused. Present.

When he sees us all seated again, Lucas gives a small nod, steadying the entire team from a thousand miles away.

Owen’s fingers never stop moving across the keyboard, but his gaze lifts briefly—just long enough to check that I’m still upright, still breathing—before dropping back to the screens. The stress is etched so deeply into his brow it looks carved there.

Ben sits up straighter, clearing his throat as he clasps his hands on the table in front of him.

And then something unexpected happens.

The guys… they don’t look through me. They don’t treat me like some fragile victim sitting on the sidelines. Instead, they look to me.

Like I’m part of the team.

Like my presence here matters.

Like I’m a part of whatever decisions come next.

And God… it helps.

“Annelly.” Ben’s tone is firm, controlled in a way that pulls my scattered focus into a single, sharp point. “You’ve spent more time with Victor than any of us. You know how he thinks, how he operates, how he moves. What you know—what you’re able to tell us—may be the key to bringing Tyler home.”

My pulse jumps, my breath hitching around a sob.

Zeb shifts slightly beside me, a quiet orbit of comfort. “We’re here for you too, Annelly. All of us,” he murmurs. “We’ll start slow—one question at a time, only as long as you’re comfortable.”

His reassurance steadies something inside me.

I nod, swipe another tear away, and force myself to meet the eyes staring back at me through the screen.

Lucas leans forward a fraction. Calm. Controlled. Measured in a way that feels almost surgical. “Before we start, let’s go through what we do know. Separate the noise. Anchor to facts.”

Facts.

That, I can do.

Facts mean certainty. Facts give shape to fear. And right now, I need anything that makes the fear feel containable.

As they relay the events of the last twenty-four hours, I listen closely. Together they retrace Tyler’s steps—from yesterday morning to the moment he left the building, through everything that’s happened since. Then they dissect Victor’s email. Owen rattles off technical details that soar over my head but clearly make sense to the others.

Then it’s my turn.

I pull in a shaky breath and begin answering their questions. I speak about Victor’s patterns. His behaviors. The things he hides, and the things he can’t help revealing. I speak about our time together—our experiences, the people in his orbit.

Throughout it, Owen’s fingers blur across the keyboard, the glow of multiple monitors reflected in his glasses. He doesn’t speak much at first, but when he finally does, his voice is tight and edged with a fury held barely in check.

“About that email—we should respond,” he mutters. “Call him out on his riddle bullshit. Or better yet, let me set a trap. Trick that loser into coming to us so we can torture his ass and then put him down like the vermin he is.”

“Owen,” Lucas warns gently. “You know we can’t.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Owen grumbles, still typing. “Just saying what we’re all thinking. The asshole deserves it. Hell, he deserves worse.”

Zeb shoots him a look—half warning, half agreement—before flicking a quick glance my way, gauging whether the words land too close. But I’m too numb for any of it to register.

“Should we respond…” Ben tilts his head, considering it. “I say we wait. Let me reach out to our FBI contacts first. See if Hunt can provide resources to help.”

“In the meantime,” Lucas says, shifting the room from analysis to action. “Owen, can you pull nearby traffic cams? Start from the moment he left the building and expand outward. See if we can track which direction he went.”

“Already on it.” Owen doesn’t even look up. His fingers blur faster. “I’ve got transit feeds, bus routes, subway platforms, street-level security. But whoever grabbed him knew how to avoid the cameras. I lose him right where we found his phone.”

A thick silence settles—heavy, frustrated—but Lucas only nods, absorbing and recalibrating.

Dominick leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “We should also look into that girl. I think she was his ex. Heard James mention her recently when they were on the phone. Anyone know her name?”

“A girlfriend? I don’t think—” Zeb begins, brow furrowing.

“Marissa Torres,” I say before I can stop myself.

Every man in the room—on-screen and off—goes still.

Ben’s eyebrows lift. “There’s a girl?”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out steadier than expected. “She’s a clinical psychology major at the Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine. Tyler told me about her. About their relationship. How it ended. He was hoping he could fix things while he was working in Philadelphia.”

Their reactions are subtle but impossible to miss.

A flicker of guilt shadows Zeb’s face.

A hard set tightens Ben’s jaw.

Dominick goes silent.

Even Owen stops mid-keystroke.

They didn’t know. These men who love James and Tyler like brothers—but somehow missed this.

Zeb clears his throat softly, his gaze meeting mine with a mix of regret and gratitude. “Thank you, Nell.” He looks at the screen. “Owen, that enough for you to find her?”

Owen’s fingers resume their rapid clicking. “Yep. More than enough.”

The room settles into a tense, focused quiet—the kind that comes when people in a room are processing something heavy.

Ben exhales slowly, leaning back with the weight of a man juggling ten things at once. “That’s enough for now. Let’s reconvene in an hour. In the meantime, I’ll reach out to our FBI contacts—see what Agent Hunt can do for us. Owen, keep digging. Lucas, coordinate with Philly PD and get whatever they’ve got; have them liaise with you directly going forward. Dom, Zeb—keep eyes on the perimeter. Stay with Annelly. And get the tracer equipment ready. If a ransom call comes in, I want us ready to move.”

Everyone nods.

“Should we consider relocating her back to Ruby Creek?” Dominick asks—and my whole body tenses. “Maybe to Lucas’s place since it’s the most secure?”

The suggestion hits me like a blow.

Leaving James, especially after everything that’s happened, feels impossible. Wrong in every way.

And dragging Victor’s brand of danger to my cousin’s doorstep? To her kids? After everything they’ve already survived?

No. I won’t do that.

“I’m just not a fan of how spread thin we are,” Dominick continues, oblivious to the sharp hitch in my breath as anxiety spikes hard in my chest. “Covering Ben’s place, Lucas’s place, HQ, the safe house… we can’t operate efficiently like this.”

I’m already shaking my head—panicked, desperate—but before anyone notices, before Ben or any of the others can respond, a voice booms from behind me.

Commanding.

Raw, yet unwavering.

A tone that allows no room for misinterpretation.

“Absolutely not. She is not going back there.”

❤️

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# Chapter 3

James

The cold ground bites through my jeans, damp and unforgiving, but it barely registers. All I feel is the burn in my throat—raw, torn open from yelling until there was nothing left in me. My chest aches like I've been stabbed straight through the heart, and my breaths come in jagged pulls—too fast, too shallow, scraping painfully through my lungs.

Tyler is gone.

Tyler is fucking gone.

The words loop viciously, carving through me until I'm shaking with the force of them.

I failed him.

I promised I'd protect him.

I let it happen all over again.

Flashes slam into me—Tyler at eight, clinging to my shirt as they tore us apart; me screaming until my voice gave out; him shoved into the back of a car headed for some foster home while I was dumped miles away in a group facility. Those rare phone calls they let us have—his voice cracking as he begged me to come get him when I couldn't. And after I finally got him back... those nights where he woke shaking, and I swore I'd never let anyone hurt him again.

And now he's out there somewhere—alone, scared, hurt, or worse—and the weight of that failure crushes every breath I try to take.

A growl vibrates low in my chest, violent and primal. Rage spikes hot beneath my skin, directionless and scalding. I shove a fist into the dirt and try to push myself upright, but my legs buckle, dropping me back to my knees beneath a grief I can't outrun.

I can't move.

I can't think.

I can't do anything but drown in the truth that I should've been there.

But then, out of nowhere, a memory cuts through the panic.

Me pressing a kiss to her forehead. My voice a whisper against her skin:

"Promise me, Snowflake. No more running. And I'll promise you the same. Next time either of us feels like running, we run straight to each other."

Her reply, soft but earnest:

"Okay. I promise. No more running."

Her voice. Her eyes. The way she said it.

It stops me mid-breath, like someone reached inside my chest and dragged me back from the edge.

My thoughts snap into place with terrifying clarity.

She's inside.

Go to her.

Get up.

Move.

I force my palms into the dirt. My arms tremble. My legs shake so violently they threaten to fold again.

But I do get up.

I push through the burn in my chest and drag in a breath. Then another. Then a third—deep enough to finally reach the bottom of my lungs.

It's enough.

Enough to get me moving. Enough to pull me forward on instinct alone—toward the only thing strong enough to anchor me now that the ground has disappeared beneath my feet.

Annelly.

The warmth of the cabin hits me the second I step through the door—too bright, too still. A jarring contrast to the chaos still ripping through my head. Voices rumble from the table, low and tense, but one line slices through the noise.

"Should we consider relocating her back to Ruby Creek?"

Dominick
.

The words punch straight under my ribs—oil to flame—enraging the monster already clawing its way up my spine. Before I can react, he adds, "Maybe Lucas's place, since it's the most secure—"

Over my dead fucking body will they take her back there. The fact they'd even suggest it feels like the worst kind of betrayal, because Ruby Creek is the one place Victor knows exactly where to find her.

The fury rises too fast to contain—protective in a way that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with fear. Hot and volatile, it rips through my blood like something feral ready to break loose.

But then I see her.

Not her face—since her back is to me—but the way her shoulders tense, drawn tight and strained. The faint shake of her head... a silent, panicked plea not to send her back there.

And all that fire, every drop of rage, grief, and adrenaline inside me funnels into a single point.

Her.

Because she's what matters.

"Absolutely not. She is not going back there." My words crack through the room like thunder, and the entire table goes still.

Then I move.

Not toward Dominick.

Not toward the argument brewing in the air like a storm.

Toward her.

Because whatever fight is coming, whatever asinine plan the team is about to pitch, nothing is going to happen until she's in my arms. Until I know she's safe. Until I stitch back together even one frayed thread of what I broke earlier.

She must sense me, because her spine goes rigid, her breath catching small and sharp in her chest. I slow as I reach her side—not out of doubt, but because I refuse to startle her again. Not after the way I scared her before I left.

My hand reaches out before I even register moving. Gentle instead of harsh. Controlled instead of spiraling.

She lifts her gaze the moment my fingers brush hers, eyes still wet, breath trembling. She hesitates for one brittle heartbeat... then her fingers slip into mine. Soft. Warm. Trusting in a way I haven't earned.

"Annelly..." Her name leaves me like an apology. Like a plea I don't deserve to make.

I coax her to stand, pulling her from the chair with a tenderness that didn't exist in me minutes ago. And the second she's upright, I gather her into my arms.

She comes without the slightest resistance. Like she's been waiting for this—waiting for 
me
. Like she needs me just as badly as I need her.

My arms wrap around her with a desperation I can't hide. I bury my face in her hair. Her scent—soft, familiar—loosens something in my ribs for the first time since I learned my brother was gone.

"I'm sorry," I breathe into her temple, voice wrecked and hoarse. "I didn't mean—God, Snowflake, I'm so fucking sorry."

She shakes her head against me, a soft, wounded sound slipping from her throat as her hands fist into the back of my shirt. Like she's drowning too. And I hate it—hate that she's hurting, hate that I'm the reason, hate that Tyler is out there somewhere and I can't reach him.

My hold tightens, instinctive and protective, keeping her tucked beneath my chin while my hand drags slow, steady lines along her spine—grounding her, grounding me.

Behind us, someone shifts. A throat clears. A chair creaks.

The team is still here. Still watching. Still waiting.

But I don't care.

Whatever argument is coming—whatever plan they want to shove down my throat—it can happen. But it happens with her right here. In my arms. Exactly where she belongs.

She stays tucked against me, face hidden from the room, from their eyes, from this entire conversation—because I'll be damned if she has to carry even one more ounce of pain today.

As soon as I turn my face toward the team, they react.

Lucas straightens on the screen, settling into that steady, grounding calm built from surviving years of catastrophe. Concern in his eyes. No judgment.

Ben doesn't speak. He waits, hands folded, reading the volatility rolling off me like he knows pushing will only make it worse.

Owen keeps typing, though the tension in his shoulders and the tic in his jaw betray him.

And then there's Dominick. 

The asshole refusing to read the room.

He stiffens the second he sees me looking at him, arms crossing over his chest, brows pulled down hard. His stare locks onto mine like he's itching for an excuse to lay into me.

Zeb picks up on it immediately. He leans back slightly, shoulders softening, posture open—but his weight shifts just enough to put himself between us if he has to. The quiet peacekeeper. The buffer.

"You good?" he murmurs.

As one of my closest friends, he already knows the answer.

But I nod anyway.

Dominick huffs impatiently, then barrels straight in. "She needs to go back to Ruby Creek, James. It's what's best, and you know it."

"No."

Ben tries to interject. "Dom—"

But Dominick steamrolls right over him. "We're spread too thin. Getting her into one of the secure locations we're already covering is the best way to conserve resources."

"I said no." 

My voice whips through the room sharp enough to cut, and he shoves to his feet. Zeb shifts again—subtle, but ready—no doubt preparing to step between us.

Lucas speaks up, calm but firmer than usual. "Guys, let's take a breath—"

But Dominick isn't listening.

"Then tell me, genius—what happens when we find Tyler? We'll need bodies. We'll need to move fast. We sure as shit can't leave her here unprotected."

My grip tightens around Annelly at even the mention of leaving her.

She tenses beneath my arms, tucking herself tighter against my chest. My thumb draws slow, steady circles along her back—meant to soothe her, meant to soothe me.

Like the inconsiderate bastard he is, Dominick doesn't stop long enough to notice.

"Or is that the plan?" he fires back. "Take her with us? Drag her into a hostile extraction and put her in even more danger? Or maybe—" he leans forward, eyes narrowing "—maybe you're willing to gamble with our lives when the rest of us have to go in to save 
your 
brother and end up dead because we're outnumbered and outgunned. So tell me, James. What the fuck is your goddamn plan?"

"Dom, that's enough." Ben's voice cuts through the room with that low, controlled tone that would make most men pause.

But Dominick doesn't even blink.

The anger spikes hard, a bright, sharp surge in my bloodstream, but instead of snapping at him, I hold her tighter. I anchor myself to her breath. Her warmth. Her trembling fingers fisted in my shirt. 

I pull in a slow, steady inhale and answer him with a clarity I feel in my bones.

"To protect her at all costs. That's the fucking plan."

Dominick's eyes widen, then narrow into something bordering on rage. 

But before he can spit anything else out, Lucas exhales and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"This isn't productive. Let's stop. Take a step back—"

But I'm done. 

I shift, angling my body so she's shielded from the tension shooting across the room. I lock onto Dominick—unblinking, unshakeable.

"I'm not taking her back there," I grind out. "Not to the one place he knows to look for her. If she were yours, you'd understand."

Then I look to Ben and Lucas, the two men who should know better than to ask that of me.

"If she were 
any
 of yours, not a single one of you would even suggest it."

Silence falls hard.

Heavy.

Loaded.

Every man goes still.

Owen's hands hover over his keyboard. Frozen.

Ben sits up straighter, jaw tight—but beneath the gathering storm in his eyes, something shifts. Understanding. A reluctant acceptance.

Lucas looks off screen and nods once, like he's remembering exactly what it felt like when it was Emilia in danger.

Zeb watches from the side, muscles coiled, ready to intervene if this goes sideways.

But Dominick still doesn't back down. His jaw clenches. Shoulders stiffen. His stance shifts into something threatening, like he's ready—hell, eager—to escalate this.

And normally?

I'd let him.

I'd step right into his space and push until one of us snapped.

But not today.

Because while he's pissed and blind to anything but his righteousness and logistics, all I feel—all I see—is the trembling woman in my arms.

The love of my fucking life.

Clinging to me like I'm the only solid thing left in a world that just fell apart.

And the truth is... that's exactly who I want to be for her. Her rock. Her shield. The man who puts her safety and well-being before everything else.

My thumb keeps tracing slow circles along her spine. The contact soothing her... hell, soothing me. It dulls the edge of Dominick's voice, his stance, his bullshit attitude until none of it even registers.

This is what loving her does to me—to the monster inside me.

This is how she's tamed it.

How she's tamed 
me
.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

"That vile piece of shit already took my little brother." I swallow hard, not giving a damn that they see every fractured piece inside me—the grief, the fear, the devastation. "I'll be damned if I let him take the woman I love from me too."

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 4

James

“James is right.”

Dominick’s head snaps toward him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Ben doesn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. His gaze stays steady, locked on me through the screen, and the quiet, unwavering respect in it hits harder than anything I expected.

“He’s right,” Ben repeats, firmer now. “Sending her back is a risk. Not just for her, but for the town and the family we’re trying to protect. Emilia and the kids. My wife and daughter. Aunt Rosie. Tyler. All of us. And James is part of this team—this family. That means he gets a say in what happens next. If he believes this is what’s best for the woman he loves, then it’s our job to listen.”

Dominick lets out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh? Fantastic. Great. From now on, let’s just make decisions based on how we feel . Because sure—why the hell not? Maybe we should light a candle, sit in a circle, hold hands, and talk about ’ letting love be our guide’ while we’re at it.”

“Oh, fuck you,” I snap before I can stop myself. “You’re lucky I’m in no mood for a fight.”

Zeb shifts beside me like he’s bracing to spring up—eyes flicking between us, waiting for one of us to blow.

Ben doesn’t acknowledge either of us. “Our job is to protect everyone. Sending her back to where Victor already knows to look? That’s not strategy. That’s reactive—and it’s probably exactly what he wants.”

Dominick’s face reddens. “Unless we have some Offset Tactical army I don’t know about, what you’re proposing is impossible. We’re down men. Mason is God knows where, off gallivanting around South America with Creed—”

Ben’s jaw ticks. “Mason is working a case. The case. The one that got Emilia and the girls kidnapped. The one that damn near got James and Tyler killed. It’s our responsibility to see it through—if for no other reason than to keep that mess from landing back on our doorstep.”

“Wrong.” Dominick’s voice spikes. “Our responsibility is to our clients. To this team. To each other. We’re short-handed as it is because of decisions you made, Ben. And now this? James’s brother is missing. Annelly needs protecting. You and Lucas can’t leave your families unprotected, and Owen is tied to HQ. That leaves two of us. Me and Zeb—against that madman’s team of paid muscle. Even if we find the kid, we won’t stand a chance at saving him.”

Annelly and I both flinch.

Hers is small—a tightening of her shoulders—but I feel it like a vice around my chest. Maybe she flinched at the shout… or maybe, like me, at the harsh truth buried in Dom’s words.

Emotion spikes hot in my throat, but all I can do is pull her closer, my palm spreading across her back, grounding her the same way I’m trying to ground myself.

Ben doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “Victor is targeting her. Putting her somewhere predictable could backfire. It could put even more people at risk if he comes after her.”

Dominick scoffs, furious. “Unbelievable.”

Annelly’s breath stutters against my chest—a soft, fragile sound that breaks something in me.

I lower my chin and press a subtle kiss into her hair. It’s a quiet promise. A vow that I’ll stand between her and anything that tries to hurt her, even as fear pulses in my chest like a second heartbeat.

I hate that Dominick is upsetting her.

Hate that he’s so hell-bent on being right, he’s stopped watching out for her altogether.

And as wrung-out and overwhelmed as I am, I’m grateful that for once, someone else is stepping up to fight the battle for me.

Lucas steps in then, voice calm enough to slice through the tension.

“If manpower is the issue, then we rally our allies. Pull support through Agent Hunt. Agent Halder. Tap into law enforcement if we have to.”

Dominick shakes his head, disbelief tightening every line of his body. “You’re all insane. We can’t trust the FBI. We can’t trust anyone —not with the kind of connections these people have.”

Ben considers that for a moment, then nods once.

“I agree with Lucas. We adapt. We trust Hunt and Halder. And as far as we know, Victor has no business or political ties to Virginia.” He exhales, jaw firming. “I’ll talk it through with Hunt, but… I’m thinking that’s our play.”

Dominick barks out a bitter laugh. “We know the FBI is compromised, Ben. That’s the entire damn point of this investigation. It’s why Hunt and Halder are working with us completely off the books in the first place.”

No one answers.

So he barrels on.

“And law enforcement?” He scoffs. “I spent the first years of my career on SWAT watching the brass bury evidence, protect the wrong people, hang good cops out to dry just to save their pensions. You loop in local PD or state police, and mark my words—Victor will have half those uniforms bowing to him before they even know they’ve been bought. All it takes is one call to the right judge, the right chief, the right political ally… and we’re done. Over. We won’t stand a fucking chance.”

Lucas doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t meet anger with anger. He just nods slowly, giving Dominick the space to feel heard.

“You’re right,” he says calmly. “We can’t trust the institutions.”

Dominick blinks.

Clearly, he wasn’t expecting Lucas to agree.

Lucas continues, steady and precise. “Which is why we don’t loop in ‘the FBI’ or ‘law enforcement’ the way you’re picturing. We loop in two people —Hunt and Halder. They’ve already proven they can be trusted. So we let them handpick who touches this. They control the flow of information. We compartmentalize—need-to-know only. No big picture. No evidence or paper trail that leads back to her or to us.”

He leans in, tone quiet but razor-sharp. “We’re not handing over the op. We’re using them as force multipliers. Bodies. Badges. Jurisdictional cover. While we still run point.”

Then, softer but firm enough to end all argument, he adds, “This isn’t about trusting systems we know can be manipulated, Dom. It’s about weaponizing the few people on the inside we already know we can trust.”

The room goes quieter—not because Dominick agrees, but because Lucas just shifted the entire foundation of his argument out from under him.

Ben’s silence isn’t hesitation. It’s calculation. And when he finally speaks, the entire room seems to steady around him.

“Then it’s set. I’ll talk to Agent Hunt,” he says, tone decisive. “We’ll get the support we need.”

Dominick stiffens, ready to fire back, but Ben doesn’t give him room to argue.

“James is right. Sending her back puts her in more danger. And it risks our families. This is how we protect everyone. This is how we save Tyler.”

Lucas nods immediately, a sure gesture of agreement.

Zeb follows, jaw firm but supportive.

Even Owen looks up long enough to murmur, “Yeah. It’s the right call.”

Dominick is the last man standing on the wrong side of the argument.

He looks around the table like he’s waiting for someone—anyone—to wake up and realize he’s right. When no one does, he lets out a humorless laugh.

“Fine,” he spits out. “But I want it on record—I don’t agree. It’s a terrible plan. I just hope it doesn’t end up getting one of us killed.”

A shiver rolls through Annelly where she’s tucked against me, and if I didn’t hate the motherfucker before, I sure as hell do now.

I hate that he said it where she could hear.

I hate that he might be right.

But mostly, I hate that I don’t have any fight left in me to tell him to shut the hell up.

I’m too tired.

Too sad.

Too goddamn scared.

I shift her slightly, grounding myself in the steady rise and fall of her breath. My hands slide along her waist, reassuring myself she’s still here. Still safe. Still with me.

“Just find my brother,” I say quietly, my voice rough with exhaustion. “That’s our primary objective. The only thing that matters now.”

I lower my head and brush a soft kiss against her temple—a quiet signal that we’re done here. Her shoulders loosen, just a touch, but it’s enough that relief hits me hard.

For now at least, she still trusts me.

I pause, taking a moment to look at the men who’ve been an integral part of my life for nearly a decade. They look just as drained as I feel. Just as hollowed out from the events of the past few hours.

But for the first time, I don’t just see co-workers I call brothers because it’s what’s expected.

For the first time, I see men who finally—actually—feel like friends. Men who get me. Who support me.

All except Dominick.

But fuck it.

As the saying goes, you can’t win them all.

“We’re going upstairs,” I tell them. “Don’t bother us unless it’s with news of my brother.”

And as much as it kills me to leave Tyler’s fate in someone else’s hands—even the men I trust most in this world—I force myself to let go and choose instead to trust. To believe in my team. To have faith they’ll find him—help me save him.

So I take her hand, lace my fingers through hers, and without waiting for permission or even a goodbye, I lead her away and up the stairs.

❤️

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# Chapter 5

James

I lead her up the stairs, her hand in mine—not because I'm steady enough to guide her, but because letting go feels impossible right now. Every step feels heavier than the last, the adrenaline that kept me upright downstairs bleeding away, leaving only fear and a bone-deep exhaustion that makes my legs shake.

When we reach the bedroom, I close the door behind us. The soft click of the lock is too loud for my frayed nerves, and despite myself, I flinch.

And then... silence.

Not the kind that soothes.

The kind that exposes every single crack I've been trying so desperately to hide.

Annelly stands beside me, close enough that the warmth of her body presses into my arm, her hand still tucked in mine. She looks so small. So fragile. And I hate it. Worse, I hate knowing that part of what she's feeling is because of me—because of the way I reacted earlier, because of how I treated her when she least deserved it.

I pull in a slow, shaky breath, but it doesn't help.

Because now that there's no fight demanding my attention—no strategy to discuss, no confrontation waiting to erupt—everything I've been holding back crashes in at once.

Not just the sickening truth that my brother is missing.

But Ben's voice siding with me.

The way Lucas stepped up with solutions, supporting me without hesitation.

How Zeb shifted forward, ready to put himself between Dominick and me if things got worse.

Even Owen, speaking up in quiet solidarity.

They all stood with me.

For me.

Not because they had to, but because they chose to.

A hot sting gathers behind my eyes. I blink hard, hoping it'll fade, but the burn only sharpens. I drag a hand over my face, trying—and failing—to steady the trembling in my chest, but it doesn't work. The tremor moves through me anyway, faint at first... then harder, too visible to hide.

I try anyway.

I let go of her hand, tucking both of mine into my pockets as if keeping them out of sight might stop her from noticing.

"James?" she whispers, hesitant, like she's afraid that even saying my name might crack what little is left of my composure.

I look at her for half a second—just long enough to see the worry in her eyes, the gentleness, the hurt she's still carrying from everything that happened downstairs—and the floor shifts beneath me.

I sit on the edge of the bed before my knees give out. My elbows brace against them, hands clasped tight, as if holding them together will keep me from completely falling apart.

"I didn't expect today to go like this," I say quietly, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. "It started off so good. So incredibly perfect..."

A tired, broken sigh slips out as I think of her smile, the peace we felt while planting her daffodils—those few precious minutes where we let ourselves forget the danger still looming over us. 

Another breath drags through me, just as unsteady, just as thick.

"I shouldn't have reacted like that. With Dom and Zeb." My voice roughens. "And I sure as hell shouldn't have yelled at you." The words scrape raw on the way out. 

My throat tightens. 

"I scared you, and I'll never forgive myself for speaking to you like that."

The truth lands somewhere deep, somewhere raw and swollen and punishing. My fingers curl, trying to stop the shaking, but she's already seen it.

The mattress dips slightly as she moves to sit beside me.

I force myself to look at her, but the moment our eyes meet, something in my chest gives. The air leaves my lungs in a shaky rush, and the first word barely makes it out.

"Annelly..." Her name fractures in my throat.

I swallow hard and try again.

"I'm—" But the rest catches, scraping against every inch of shame lodged inside me.

"I'm sorry." The words finally slip free—rough, broken, truer than anything I've said all day. "For earlier. For yelling. For scaring you. For... all of it."

My gaze drops to the floor because I can't bear to see whatever is in her eyes. My hands tremble despite how tightly I'm gripping them, knuckles white from the effort.

"I shouldn't have walked away from you. I shouldn't have—" My breath stutters. "I lost control, and that's not an excuse. You didn't deserve any of it."

The admission burns on the way out.

Everything in me feels too tight, too exposed. My chest aches like someone's got a fist wrapped around my beating heart and won't let go.

"I hate that I put that look on your face," I whisper. "I hate that I became someone you had to flinch from."

I drag a shaking hand over my face, desperate to contain the unraveling, but it's useless. My throat is thick with it, my breath uneven. I don't know where to put any of it—the fear, the guilt, the disgust curling deep inside me.

"I should've stayed with you," I breathe. "I should've—God, I should've done everything differently."

I feel her move before I see her.

A soft inhale. 

A shift in the mattress.

And then a hand finds mine—steadier than I deserve—while her other hand lifts to touch my face, gentle, certain, guiding my eyes back to hers.

My eyes close instantly. A reflex I can't fight. A habit built from years of refusing to look weak where anyone could see.

The dam I've held together all day buckles under the weight of her touch. 

A broken sound slips out of me before I can stop it.

Suddenly desperate—for comfort, for a lifeline, for anything that might keep me from drowning—I lean into her hand like it's the only thing holding me here. Like it's the anchor stopping me from slipping into the darkness clawing at me from every side.

A tear escapes before I can stop it. Then another. Then another. 

I reach around her hand to wipe them away as quickly as I can, shame burning so hot under my skin I'm convinced she can feel it.

But she doesn't let me hide. Her fingers follow, brushing my cheek again—steady, patient. Choosing me. Waiting for me. Even after everything.

"I'm sorry," I breathe, the words slipping out through cracks I suddenly can't close. "I'm so damn sorry."

Her thumb sweeps away a tear I missed, and when I finally lift my gaze, she's already leaning in—close enough that her forehead rests gently against mine. The contact is soft, barely there, but it steals whatever air I had left in my lungs.

"James..." she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.

Her fingers slide into my hair, slow and tender, as if she's trying to piece me back together by touch alone. Her other hand stays on my cheek, palm open and steady, grounding me in a way only she ever has.

"It's okay," she murmurs. "It's going to be okay."

The words shouldn't undo me the way they do, but they slip into every raw, splintered place inside me and settle there like a balm.

She tilts her head just enough to meet my eyes—not to expose me, not to corner me, but to remind me I'm safe. That with her, there's no judgment. No anger left between us.

"There's nothing to forgive," she says softly. "But in case you need to hear it... I forgive you. For everything. For all of it."

My throat tightens. I shake my head, unable to accept something so big. So merciful. A level of grace I've never earned—not even close.

But she doesn't let me look away. She doesn't give me the space to retreat. Her thumb strokes my cheek again—gentle, patient, unwavering.

"I know it wasn't about me," she exhales. "I know you weren't trying to hurt me."

A tremor runs through me.

Because she's right. And hearing her say it—knowing she understands—hits deeper than I'm prepared for.

She inches closer, closing the last sliver of space between us, her forehead still pressed to mine like she knows I can't breathe and is offering me her strength.

"Loving someone means loving every part of them," she murmurs. "Even the parts that lash out when they're scared. Even the parts still learning how to trust... how to accept they aren't alone anymore. Even the parts that sometimes hurt."

My chest caves at that. And suddenly I can't fight it anymore.

The pain. 

The guilt. 

The fear. 

The relief.

It all surges up, breaking through the cracks I've held together for far too long, and the sob that tears out of me is so rough, so gutted, it knocks the breath from my lungs.

But I can't stop.

I can't bring myself to stop.

Not with her hands in my hair.

Not with her voice soft and certain in my ear.

Not when, for the first time in my life, falling apart feels... safe.

Safe because it's her. 

Because she's the calm at the center of my storm. 

Because somehow—by some impossible miracle—being in her arms doesn't make me feel weak.

It makes me feel loved in a way I think I've spent my whole life craving.

❤️

 
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Chapter 6

James

The worst of the sobs eventually fade, leaving me hollow and shaking in her arms. My forehead still rests against hers, our breaths brushing—uneven at first, then slowly finding the same rhythm. She keeps her fingers threaded through my hair, like she knows her touch is the only thing keeping me tethered.

I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the lump wedged in my throat, but it doesn’t move. My hands tighten gently at her waist, just enough to remind myself she’s still here. Still with me. Even after everything she just witnessed.

Something in my chest shifts at that. And suddenly… I want to tell her.

“I keep seeing him,” I whisper, my voice rough and scraped raw. “Tyler. Not the way he is now. I keep seeing him as a kid.”

Her fingers pause in my hair, just for a second, then resume—slow, patient, grounding.

I drag in a trembling breath.

“I remember the day my mom brought him home from the hospital. I was only four, but…” My voice falters, and I pause, forcing it steady again. “But I knew. Even then. I knew he was mine to protect.”

A breathless, humorless laugh slips out.

“Four years old, and I already knew our mom wasn’t going to do it right. That if anyone was gonna look out for him, it had to be me.” I shake my head, blinking against the burn gathering behind my eyes. “I remember feeling… relieved. Like I wasn’t gonna be alone anymore. Like I finally had someone. An ally. And it was gonna be him and me against the world.”

Her thumb strokes my cheek, slow and grounding.

“It was stupid,” I murmur. “He was a baby. I was barely out of being one myself. But it never went away. That instinct. That… sense of responsibility.”

A shudder works its way through my chest.

“Growing up fucking sucked,” I say quietly. “We were four years apart, which feels huge when you’re so young. And even worse when you’re growing up in a world full of danger, full of people with no conscience and bad intentions.” My throat tightens again. “I spent so much time being angry at him back then. Angry because he was so innocent. Because he didn’t see the world the way I did. Because I couldn’t get him to toughen up or understand the kind of shit that was out there.”

Her fingers slip from my hair to the back of my neck, warm and encouraging.

“But at the same time, I tried so damn hard to shield him from all of it. I wanted him to have… hope. A childhood. A chance to see the world as something other than a threat.”

I swallow hard, voice thickening.

“I didn’t want him to share in my worries. Even though I spent years resenting how everything fell on me.” My chest aches as the truth presses in. “And I loved that kid so fucking much that when I lost him—when the system took him from me—I almost gave up. Every single day, I wanted to. Because even at fourteen years old, I couldn’t imagine a life without him. Without him, there was no point. No purpose. No reason to keep fighting.”

My breath hitches.

“Until that first phone call,” I whisper. “Hearing his voice for the first time in nearly a month. Hearing him begging for me to come for him. Hearing him say he wanted to be with me.”

The words scrape raw through my chest, exposed in a way I’ve never allowed anyone else to see.

“That’s when I knew my job wasn’t done. It took four years, but the minute I turned eighteen, with Ben’s help, I got him out. Brought him home. Built us a life. And ever since then, it’s been the same thing. Just me and him. Me taking care of him. Me keeping him safe. Helping him heal. Raising him to be a better man than I’ll ever be, so he can live the kind of life I’ll never get to have.”

The tears come back—hot, humiliating, and steeped in guilt.

“He’s not built for what’s happening to him.” My voice fractures. “And I’m not there. I should be with him. I should be out there searching. I should’ve—” My breath splinters. “God, I should’ve protected him better.”

Her hand leaves my cheek only long enough to cradle the side of my neck, guiding me gently until my forehead rests against her shoulder. Her breath brushes past my ear, warm and steady—a lifeline I cling to without shame.

“James, you have to believe that he’ll be okay… because he learned how to survive from you.”

I clench my jaw, shaking my head, but she doesn’t let me pull away.

“He idolized you,” she continues softly. “Everything he knows about strength. About protecting himself. About holding on when things are hard, he learned that from watching you.”

Her hand sweeps along the back of my head, and like a starving man, I lean into her, my body taking what it needs before my mind can stop me.

“He knows you’re coming for him,” she whispers. “That you’ll find him. That you won’t stop until he’s safe.” She pulls back just enough for me to see her eyes—shining, breaking, loving me. Loving my brother too.

“And that belief—your love—is what’s keeping him going right now. Even if he’s scared. Even if he’s hurt. He knows you won’t give up on him.”

My chest caves around the words.

Because God, I want to believe her.

I want to believe her so badly it hurts.

“Thank you,” I murmur at last, my voice stripped bare. The words feel too small for everything she’s just given me, but right now, they’re all I’ve got.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.” I kiss her forehead, slow and reverent. “Come here.”

I draw her closer, guiding her down onto the bed with me until her head rests against my chest. I breathe her in, anchoring myself in the weight of her, the warmth of her body, the steady proof that she’s here. That I’m not alone.

I pull back just enough to look at her. And when our eyes meet, the shame I thought I’d already bled dry surges back to life.

My jaw tightens.

“There’s something else I need to say,” I tell her quietly, my throat working around the words. “Something I can’t let slide.”

Her brows knit, concern flickering across her face, and it only makes my chest ache more.

“I keep seeing it,” I admit. “The way you flinched. The way your body reacted when I raised my voice.” My breath shakes. “I did that. I put that fear into you.”

She opens her mouth, already shaking her head. “James, it’s okay. It wasn’t—”

“No.” The word comes out firmer than I intend, but I don’t soften it. I refuse to. Because I need her to understand.

I cup her face gently, forcing her to really hear the meaning behind my words. “Don’t do that. Don’t you ever say that. What I did was not okay.”

Her lips part, uncertainty flickering across her face.

“I don’t want you excusing it. I don’t want you thinking for even a second that kind of behavior is something you just have to accept—especially from me.”

My voice cracks, but I don’t stop.

“I yelled at you. I scared you. And I don’t care how much fear or grief or rage was running through me—I had no right. No right to ever speak to you that way.”

Tears shine in her eyes, but she doesn’t look away.

“I’ve got to do better.” I shake my head once, the truth settling heavy in my chest. “No. I will do better.”

Her breath stutters.

I lean closer, my forehead resting against hers, my voice dropping to something raw and reverent.

“I love you,” I whisper. “So much I can’t fathom a single second of letting you believe you deserve any of my shit.”

A tear slips down her cheek, and I catch it with my thumb, owning every ounce of the pain I put there.

“You don’t,” I tell her softly. “You deserve more. You deserve better.”

I draw in a slow breath, grounding myself before I say what matters most.

“So demand it, Annelly. Demand it from me. Demand respect. Demand safety.” My voice breaks. “Demand everything you need, everything I’ve promised you, and I’ll dig deep to give it all to you.”

Her lips tremble.

“Okay,” she whispers. “I will.”

Her words hit harder than I expect. Relief floods my chest so fast it nearly steals my breath.

Because it’s one thing to hold myself accountable. It’s another to know she’ll never again feel like she has to swallow her fear—or her needs—to protect me.

I hate that I even need that reassurance.

But this is me .

The monster.

The protector.

Two sides of the same coin, both just as suffocating. Both just as relentless and dangerous to the people I love.

Fact is, I’ve never been normal. I don’t know how to love softly or gently. Which is why she needs to know it’s her right to stop me. To call me out. To put me in my place and demand more.

I pull her back into me, pressing my lips to the crown of her head, breathing her in like I need the reminder that she’s real. That she’s still here. That she’s still mine.

And as I hold her, a fragile truth settles deep in my bones.

Love might not be enough to save us from what’s coming. But it might be enough to keep me standing. To keep me fighting. To keep me whole when everything else threatens to tear me apart.

And then there’s that small spark of hope now simmering inside me. Hope that feels just as dangerous as the love I feel for her.

And still… with her in my arms, I realize I want it all.

Hope that we’ll find Tyler.

Hope for a future where we’re all together again.

Hope for a life that only ever existed in the dreams I taught myself to ignore.

With her, I want to take that leap.

Even if it means risking everything I’ve spent a lifetime fighting for.

❤️

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# Chapter 7

Annelly

I wake slowly, dragged up from shallow, fractured sleep by the quiet.

For a few disoriented seconds, I don't know where I am—only that my body feels heavy, like it never truly rested. My muscles ache in that dull, bone-deep way that comes from tension, not exertion. From bracing for something that could come at any moment, but never quite arrived.

Then it all comes rushing back.

Last night.

James's heartbreak.

Tyler's disappearance.

My eyes snap open, my heart already racing, and the first thing I register is the empty space beside me. The sheets are rumpled where James should be, but the bed is cold.

My chest tightens.

What if he's not okay?

The question lands hard against my ribs. I push myself up on one elbow, scanning the room even though I already know he isn't here. His clothes are gone from the chair. His boots aren't by the door anymore.

I press a palm to my sternum, trying to slow my breathing as the tightness spreads, curling inward, wrapping around my midsection.

James promised he wouldn't run anymore. But the urge inside him to self-destruct still runs deep. I've seen it too many times—the bloodied knuckles, the hard edge in his eyes when fear turns outward and he burns it off the only way he knows how. Punching things. Picking fights. Moving until something hurts enough to drown everything else out.

After last night—after everything he said, everything he admitted, everything he took responsibility for—I can't shake the worry that the silence finally caught up with him. That sitting with it all, with nowhere to hide from it, might have tipped him back toward those old instincts.

The image of him alone with those thoughts makes my stomach twist.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, feet planted on the cold floor, grounding myself the way I've learned to.

Deep breath in.

Then out.

Slow and steady, following the rhythm until my body remembers how to settle.

The cabin is still, wrapped in that early-morning hush where the world feels suspended. Pale light filters through the thin curtains, painting the walls in muted shades of gold. Everything looks deceptively calm, as if nothing has changed.

But everything has.

I stand and reach for my clothes, pulling them on quickly before heading to the bathroom to finish getting ready.

No matter how hard I try, I can't stop thinking about what James told me last night. About how young he was when he took responsibility for Tyler. About the weight he carried long before any child should have to. About everything he and Tyler already survived—together.

And now Tyler is out there.

In danger.

Alone.

The thought presses down on my chest until it's hard to breathe, until my ribs ache with the effort of holding myself together.

I'm familiar enough with Victor's brand of justice to know he isn't just holding Tyler for the sake of negotiating my return. He's doing this to punish James—twisting the knife, knowingly or not, forcing him to relive every failure, every moment he couldn't protect the one person he vowed never to fail.

And if they don't find him...

God, I can't even finish the thought.

Because I know what losing Tyler would do to James. I've seen how close he already is to breaking. How much of himself he's holding together by sheer force of will alone.

That fear—
for both of them
—is what finally gets me moving.

The stairs creak softly beneath my feet as I make my way down, expecting the cabin to be quiet like usual. Empty. Or at least calm.

What I find instead is anything but.

It takes my brain a second to catch up, to make sense of what I'm seeing. The furniture has been shifted. Tables pulled apart and pushed together. Cables snake across the floor in deliberate, organized lines. Screens—too many to count at first glance—line the far wall, glowing softly in the dim morning light.

My steps slow.

Zeb stands near the center of it all, sleeves rolled up, tablet in hand, his attention fixed on one of the displays. Dominick is posted off to the side, jaw tight, arms crossed as he monitors a feed I can't see. Both of them look alert. Awake. Like they never really slept.

The space looks nothing like a cabin anymore.

It looks like a command center.

"What's going on?" I ask quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Zeb looks up at the sound of my voice, his expression softening when he sees me. "Morning, Nell." He glances around, as if noticing the chaos for the first time. "Sorry. Should've warned you. We moved things around."

"I see." My eyes sweep helplessly over the screens, the equipment, the unfamiliar shapes and shadows as I swallow back the suffocating sense that the walls are closing in.

Zeb sets the tablet aside and steps closer, instinctively lowering his voice. "Since we agreed to loop in the FBI—and possibly local law enforcement—moving OTS resources here made sense, given the situation."

My stomach sinks.

"Keeping everything centralized gives us more control," he continues. "Faster response time. And," his gaze flicks briefly toward the stairs behind me. "Having all of us here helps keep you safer."

I nod automatically. Because of course. It makes sense. Logically, it's exactly what should be happening.

Still, the weight of it presses down on me all at once.

Up until now, all of this had been housed in the other cabin. A physical distance that gave the illusion that things weren't as bad as they felt. That we still had room to relax. To breathe.

Standing here now, that illusion is shattered.

What Victor has done is escalation. And this—this is the team circling the wagons. Closing ranks. Preparing for a fight I should have known was coming.

I swallow and force myself to keep breathing. To push the fear and the other unwelcome emotions back where they belong.

"Alright," I say, because what else is there to say?

My eyes drift to Dominick. He still hasn't looked at me once. He shifts slightly, like he can sense my attention, but his focus remains fixed stubbornly on his screen. The tension from yesterday hangs thick in the air around him—unfinished, unresolved—but I don't have the bandwidth to address it. Not now. Not with everything going on.

My gaze moves back to the room, taking in the hum of equipment, the low murmur of machines, the quiet urgency vibrating beneath everything.

And then I realize what's missing.

"Where's James?" I ask, my voice too quick to hide the concern.

Zeb's mouth curves in a small, knowing smile. "Outside." He nods toward one of the screens. "He's good. See for yourself."

❤️

 
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Chapter 8

Annelly

I follow the motion automatically, my eyes taking a second to adjust to the brightness of the screen.

And then I see him.

James stands just before the tree line, sleeves pushed up, axe raised over his shoulder. The blade comes down with a solid, controlled crack, splitting the log clean in two. He doesn’t rush as he resets his stance, hefts another log onto the chopping block, and lines it up just right. Every movement is deliberate. Measured. Nothing about it is reckless.

My breath leaves me in a rush.

He’s not pacing.

He’s not lashing out at the world.

Most importantly, he isn’t bleeding out his pain.

The tension locked tight in my chest loosens just enough to let air back into my lungs. My shoulders sag as relief washes through me, leaving me a little shaky.

“He’s okay,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.

Zeb hums softly beside me, like he understands exactly what I’m seeing and why it matters.

“How does he seem?” I ask, forcing my voice steady. “Since he woke up, I mean.”

“Relatively speaking?” Zeb tilts his head, considering. “Worried sick. About Tyler. About you. About everything.” He exhales slowly. “Barely slept, but still ran around here all morning cooking enough food to feed an army. Helped us move and set up the equipment. Volunteered to check the perimeter twice. And when there was nothing left for him to do…” His gaze flicks back to the screen. “He grabbed the axe.”

I watch as James adjusts his grip, plants his feet, and brings the blade down again. Clean. Controlled. Not frantic.

“He’s burning off the anxiety,” Zeb continues. “The movement helps. Doing something physical. Keeps the noise from getting too loud in his head.”

I nod slowly, understanding settling deep in my bones.

This isn’t him spiraling. This is him finding another way. A healthier way.

“This is good… right?” I ask quietly, doubt threading through the relief. Because for someone like James, bottling things up can be just as dangerous.

Zeb’s gaze stays focused on the screen. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I’d say so.”

Another log splits. James pauses, wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, then stacks the wood neatly beside him before reaching for the next piece.

“He’s handling this better than any of us expected,” Zeb adds. “In a way we weren’t sure he was even capable of.” His gaze shifts to me, quiet and deliberate. “And we’re pretty sure that has everything to do with you.”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I look away, suddenly finding the cables at my feet far more interesting than his words.

“I don’t know about that,” I say quietly. “If it weren’t for me, this wouldn’t be happening. He’d be at home. With Tyler. Both of them safe.”

My chest tightens as the familiar guilt flares hot and sharp, like a live wire under my skin.

Zeb lets out a soft breath, almost a chuckle, but there’s no humor in it—just familiarity.

“Nah,” he says gently. “I know the Serrano brothers better than anyone.” He crosses his arms, mirroring a posture I’ve come to associate with the men of OTS. “If it wasn’t this, it would’ve been something else. Trouble has a way of finding those two. Always has.”

I shake my head, unconvinced.

Thankfully, Zeb doesn’t push. Instead, his voice softens. “What you’re seeing out there?” He nods toward the screen again. “That’s growth. That’s him choosing patience over destruction. And trust me, he didn’t get there on his own.”

I risk another look at the feed.

James lifts the axe again. Brings it down clean. Steady. Grounded. Still standing. Still looking strong, like he’s somehow capable of surviving this too.

For the first time since waking up, I let myself believe that at least for now, he’s okay.

“I should go check on him.”

Zeb watches me for another beat, like he’s weighing something. Then he says, “You could. But why not grab some breakfast first?”

I blink at him.

“For James,” he adds easily. “Knowing you’ve eaten will be one less thing for him to worry about.” His mouth quirks. “And it’ll give him a few extra minutes to work through whatever’s still bothering him. Plus—no offense—you look like you’re running on fumes.”

I glance back at the screen instinctively, at the steady rhythm of James’s movements. The controlled rise and fall of the axe.

Zeb’s right.

If I went out there right now, the first thing James would ask is whether I’d eaten. And if I said no, he’d worry. He’d blame himself. He’d tuck the guilt away and stack it on top of everything else he already thinks he’s failing at.

“Okay,” I say after a second, the word feeling like a decision instead of a concession. “I’ll grab something.”

Relief flickers across Zeb’s face as he gestures toward the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

I take a few steps, then stop short.

The counter is covered with food.

Eggs still steaming under a warming tray. Bacon stacked neatly on a platter. French toast. Crepes. Fruit. A pan of something that smells suspiciously like potatoes and onions. Homemade muffins cooling in their pan. Coffee already brewed, mugs lined up like we’re expecting company.

I let out a soft, incredulous breath.

“He did all this?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Zeb chuckles. “Told you. The man was on a mission.”

My chest tightens in that familiar, complicated way—equal parts warmth and worry. Even drowning in fear, James still takes care of everyone else first. Like a reflex he can’t shut off, especially when things are hard.

I fix myself a plate and pour a mug of coffee, the simple motions grounding. I take my time carrying everything to the table, choosing not to rush. Choosing to stay present. To listen to my body instead of the noise in my head.

Dominick moves past me, reaching for a keyboard, and for a moment the space between us feels heavy with everything left unsaid yesterday. His jaw tightens when he notices me watching him.

“Good morning,” I offer quietly.

He hesitates, just a fraction of a second, then nods. “Morning.”

His response isn’t warm, but it isn’t hostile either. And for right now, that feels like enough.

I sit and take my first bite, surprised by how hungry I actually am. The food tastes better than it should, considering everything. Or maybe that’s just what happens when your body is overwhelmed and desperate for something good to cling to.

As I eat, Zeb and Dominick move around the room with practiced efficiency. Screens refresh. Data scrolls. Voices stay low, clipped, focused. Whatever tension existed between them yesterday has been folded neatly into the work.

“Any news?” I ask after a few minutes, keeping my voice steady. “About Tyler.”

Zeb doesn’t look away from the screen. “Not yet.”

My stomach rolls, appetite fading fast.

“We’ve got the tracer ready,” he continues. “As soon as Victor makes contact, we’ll track the communication—geolocation, routing, the works. Owen’s all over it.”

When he makes contact.

I swallow hard. “Why do you think he hasn’t yet?”

Zeb’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Honestly? It’s intentional. He’s drawing it out. Taking his time. Trying to make us anxious. Throw us off our game.”

“To scare us,” I say.

“To taunt James,” Dominick adds from his work station, voice flat. “Make him desperate. Emotional. Push him into doing something reckless—which, frankly, is James’s default. Something you all seem hell-bent on pretending isn’t a problem.”

A chill slides down my spine, sharp and immediate. I want to argue. To defend James. To shut Dominick down. But fear settles in my chest all the same, because I’ve seen what happens when James feels cornered. When he’s desperate. Especially when something he loves feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

“That’s enough.” Zeb’s gaze snaps to Dominick, sharp and unyielding. “James will do what needs to be done to keep everyone safe. He might be volatile at times, but he would never endanger Tyler—or any of us, for that matter.”

Dominick huffs quietly, his attention shifting back to his screen, clearly unconvinced.

Zeb turns back to me, deliberately placing himself between me and the brooding man behind him.

“Bastille will call soon enough,” he says. “And when he does, we’ll be ready. Everything’s going to work out, Annelly. You’ll see.”

His reassurance doesn’t settle anything.

It only reminds me how much is riding on Victor’s next move, and how easily everything could unravel once he decides to act.

Because with the pressure James is under, with how thin the line is between holding himself together and losing ground to the fear clawing at him, it might only take one misstep. One more loss. One more calculated push from Victor to send James spiraling back toward the darker instincts he’s spent a lifetime fighting to outrun.

And if that happens…

I’m not sure there’s anything any of us could say or do to save him from himself.

❤️

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# Chapter 9

James

Forty-eight hours.

That's how long it's been since he was taken, and still no call. No message. No proof that my brother is still breathing.

After nearly two full days of silence—of not hearing his voice, of not getting so much as a scrap of reassurance—the fact that I haven't flown into a murderous rage is a goddamn miracle.

Not a miracle. 

It's Annelly.

She's the reason I'm standing here looking like a man who has his shit together instead of one who's a heartbeat away from ripping the world to pieces. She's the reason I seem patient in my restraint. Why I don't look like I'm unraveling as I keep myself busy working around the cabin.

And I don't mean busy in the way I usually revert to during a crisis. 

No. 

Today there's no pacing. No snapping at anyone. No fists slamming into walls—or into my teammates—the way that itch under my skin usually drives me to do when I need something solid to push back against. Something that isn't terror. Something that isn't that sick, free-fall sensation that steals my breath when everything spins out of control.

Instead, I move through the cabin with deliberate purpose. Being helpful. Cooperative. Acting like the team player I'm sure Ben always wished I could be. 

In other words, acting like it isn't my life on the fucking chopping block. 

I offer help constantly, volunteering to check the equipment again and again. Zeb—and even Dominick—indulge me every time, even though we all know it's wasted effort since every sweep ends the same way.

With the realization that there's nothing left to be done.

And then, within seconds, my chest clamps down tight again. That helpless sensation twists inside me until everything feels so constricted I can hardly draw in a breath. 

So I redirect fast, turning my attention to her instead.  

Checking in.

Feeding her.

Getting her coffee.

Touching her.

Kissing her forehead and breathing her in like a dying man trying to remember how to stay alive. 

Those small touches—the quiet intimacy, the warmth of her against me—soothe the monster screaming inside my skull. Muzzle it. Force it into silence. Into submission.

Until I can finally see straight.

And then...the cycle starts all over again.

It's fucking maddening.

A slow, torturous kind of insanity, the likes of nothing I've ever known. Not even in the worst years of my life have I experienced anything like it.

But it's necessary.

For her.

For Tyler.

I'll do everything exactly the way I'm supposed to. White-knuckling my way through it minute by fucking minute. Hour by fucking hour. Sometimes breath by fucking breath if I have to, because this is the one time in my fucking life I can't afford to screw things up.

There's too much at stake.

Too much for me to lose.

"You okay?"

Those observant green eyes snap to mine from where she sits across the kitchen island, still trying to finish her dinner.

"Of course." I attempt a smile, the lie slipping past my lips with an ease I'd be ashamed of if I didn't know it's exactly what she needs to hear.

If I learned anything from yesterday, it's that to keep us both on steady ground, I have to be her strength. The same way she's become mine.

From the way she's looking at me, I know she doesn't believe me for a second. But before she can push—before she can say anything else—my phone vibrates.

It isn't loud. It isn't dramatic. Just a single buzz against the countertop in front of me.

And it hits the room like an explosion.

Everything freezes.

For half a second, no one breathes. No one moves. The world suspends itself around that small, glowing screen as the unknown number pulses again.

My hand is already closing around the phone when Zeb moves.

"Wait." His voice is sharp, cutting through the moment. He's at my side in two strides, a device already in his hand. 

At the same time, Dominick snaps to his feet, fingers flying across the keyboard, eyes locked on the monitors as he fires off alerts to OTS.

Zeb plugs the tracer into my phone with practiced precision, fingers moving fast, efficient. When he's done, he hands it back without looking at me and nods once.

Now.

I answer, putting the phone on speaker.

"Hello." My voice is composed only because I force it to be. I slow my breathing, fighting to line my thoughts up so I can think instead of feel.

"Mr. Serrano." The voice on the other end is smooth. Cultured. Polished with a hint of false charm.

It slithers straight down my spine.

"I was beginning to worry you wouldn't answer."

My grip tightens around the phone.

"Who is this?" I ask, even though every cell in my body already knows the answer.

A soft chuckle filters through the speaker. Amused. Intimate like we're old friends catching up over drinks instead of enemies circling each other with blades drawn.

"Oh, come now," he says gently. "You know exactly who this is."

The room feels smaller. The air heavier.

"Where's my brother?" I demand. No preamble. No pleasantries. The restraint I've been clinging to all day groans under the strain.

Another pause. Deliberate, I'm sure.

"He's with me," Victor says at last, calm as ever. "Safe. For now, at least."

The words detonate in my chest.

I hear Annelly's breath hitch somewhere across from me, but I don't look up. I can't.

"Where. Is. He?" I grind out. 

He hums in consideration, like he's actually weighing the question.

"You sound... different, James," Victor muses. "I must admit, I'm somewhat disappointed. Where's the arrogance? The bravado? At the very least, I expected that legendary temper I've heard so much about." A smile edges into his voice. "I'm beginning to wonder if your reputation as 
the Reaper
 was exaggerated."

My jaw clenches until it aches. Of course he's done his homework on me. Of course he knows exactly which buttons to push.

"I said—where the fuck is my brother?"

That makes him laugh.

"Oh, James," he murmurs. "Always so singularly focused. You should know negotiations tend to go better when they're preceded by a little civility."

My fingers dig into the phone until my knuckles burn.

"Anyway," he continues smoothly, "here we are—nearly forty-eight hours later—and you haven't come charging into New York to tear the city apart looking for me." His tone shifts. Almost approving. "I'm impressed by your restraint."

The monster inside me slams against its cage, furious at the taunt.

"Stop wasting my fucking time," I say tightly. "State your terms. What is it you want?"

Another pause. 

Longer this time.

When Victor speaks again, the polished businessman is gone. In his place is the vile, predatory thing that's haunted Annelly for months.

"You know exactly what I want. I want you to choose." He inhales, slow and indulgent. "Let's stop pretending, James. You and I both know the only way this ends is with a trade."

❤️

 
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Chapter 10

James

My pulse roars in my ears.

“A trade requires proof you have him,” I say, forcing the words out with steady confidence even as something vicious coils tighter in my chest. “I want to speak to him.”

Silence.

Victor lets it stretch just long enough for doubt to creep in. Long enough for the image of Tyler alone, hurt—or worse–to claw its way into my head.

Then he hums, clearly amused. “Of course. You didn’t think I’d expect you to negotiate on faith alone, did you?”

My grip tightens on the phone until the plastic creaks. I feel it before I fully register it—the tremor crawling up my forearm, the way my pulse spikes hard enough to blur the edges of my vision.

“I swear to God, if you’ve done something to him—”

“Oh, James.” There’s a smile in his voice now. “Relax. I wouldn’t damage my leverage.”

The word leverage lands like a boulder on my chest.

“That’s not the kind of man I am. And it’s why I agree. You deserve the reassurance.”

A faint rustle comes through the line. Fabric shifting. Movement close to the receiver.

My lungs forget how to work.

Then—

A sound.

Sharp. Hollow. Wet.

Followed by a broken groan that detonates straight through me.

Tyler.

The world tunnels.

My fingers lock around the phone, tendons screaming as my grip turns white-hot. The room tilts. Narrows. My breath shatters, tearing out of me in a jagged pull I can’t stop.

No.

No, no, no—

The monster inside me bares its teeth.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!” The words rip out of me, raw and unfiltered. “Don’t you fucking touch my brother, you sick son of a bitch—”

“Ah.” Victor exhales, satisfied. “There he is. Good to finally meet you, Mr. Reaper.”

Another sound slips through the line—smaller this time. Muffled. Like someone trying to speak through pain.

It’s Tyler’s voice, but I can’t make out the words.

My vision burns. Stars burst behind my eyes.

The monster surges—roaring for blood, for bone, for the sweet release of violence. Threats spill out of me, ugly and unhinged, promises I would gladly carve into Victor’s flesh if he were anywhere near me.

I don’t see Zeb signalling for me to calm down.

I don’t hear Dominick swearing under his breath.

Most of all, I don’t register the whimpers coming from the woman across from me.

Because if I do—if I let myself look at her and I see the same agony tearing my heart apart, carved across her face—I swear to fucking Christ, I will break.

When I finally fall silent, Victor lets the quiet stretch, savoring every ragged breath I struggle to drag back under control.

“Now that that unpleasantness is behind us,” he says smoothly, “what do you say we continue negotiations?”

My jaw trembles as I force the monster down, force air back into my lungs one painful inch at a time.

“What do you want?” I grind out. “Just fucking say it.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“An exchange,” Victor replies. “Your brother for my Dove.”

My stomach drops.

“No,” I snarl. “That’s not a choice. That will never fucking happen.”

“It’s the only one you have.” His voice remains calm. Certain. “You return what’s mine, and Tyler walks away alive. Whole. Traumatized perhaps—a little worse for the wear—but alive, nonetheless.”

Rage and terror collide, ripping through me at once.

“You will never touch her again,” I vow. “I’ll burn your entire life to the ground—tear out your heart and feed it to you—before I ever let her near you again. Do you hear me?”

A soft chuckle answers.

“Such devotion,” Victor murmurs. “Admirable. Futile—but admirable.”

My nails bite into my palm, grounding me in pain so I don’t lose the last shred of control I have left.

“Think of it as balance,” he continues. “One life for another. Someone who belongs to you, for someone who belongs to me. A fair trade, Mr. Serrano.”

Fair?

That he’s using that word in this context is downright obscene.

“You ambushed my brother,” I hiss. “You’re holding him against his will—using him as leverage. There is nothing fucking fair about this.”

Victor sighs, almost bored.

“You’re missing the point, James. I lose my Dove, you lose your brother. Or we exchange what belongs to us, and everyone lives to see another day. Simple.”

Ice clinks against glass on his end of the line.

“I suggest,” he adds pleasantly, “you take a moment to consider your options. Carefully.”

“No,” I say again, louder this time. “You don’t get to dictate terms like this. I’m not handing her over to you. Ever. And you will release my brother. Right fucking now.”

Victor sighs—long and theatrical—like I’ve disappointed him.

“Oh, James,” he says gently. “Still clinging to the fantasy that there’s a version of this where you don’t lose someone precious to you. It’s what makes this so damn tragic.”

Zeb’s hand comes up in my peripheral vision—two fingers.

Stall.

He’s telling me to slow down. To buy time. But my head is so twisted up I barely register what the fuck he’s asking me to do.

Dominick doesn’t look at me at all. His jaw is locked tight, eyes glued to the data rolling across the monitors.

“You think you’re protecting her,” Victor continues. “But all you’re really doing is prolonging your brother’s suffering while postponing the inevitable.”

My stomach twists hard enough to make me dizzy. I lean against the counter, gripping the edge as my knees threaten to give out beneath me.

“Anything happens to him,” I warn, my voice breaking despite my effort to keep it steady, “and I swear to God—”

“You’ll do what, Mr. Serrano?” Victor interrupts. “Say something frightening? Issue more empty threats? Make another promise you can’t possibly keep from whatever hole you’re hiding in?”

The monster inside me snarls.

My hands shake.

“James.” Annelly’s voice cuts through the panic flooding my veins.

I look at her before I can stop myself.

She’s standing now. Pale. Devastated. But her eyes are fixed on me with a look that communicates exactly what she’s thinking.

“No,” I say instantly. “Absolutely not.”

She takes a step closer.

“I can do this,” she says quietly. Not to Victor. To me. “I can fix this.”

My heart stutters.

Victor chuckles. “Ah. There she is. My sweet, sweet Dove. You always did have a remarkable sense of timing.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap. It’s useless. The damage is already done. “Don’t talk to her. You don’t get to talk to her.”

“James, stop.” A steady hand covers mine, her eyes pleading. “Victor, I’ll go back with you,” she says, louder now. Steadier. “You bring Tyler back. You let him go, and I’ll go with you. No games. I won’t put up a fight. And neither will anyone else.”

I erupt.

Zeb moves at the same time I do, grabbing my arm, trying to hold me back like he’s afraid I might hurt her, which only makes it worse.

“No.” The word tears out of me as I wrench free, my eyes never leaving hers. “No—absolutely not. You don’t get to decide this. You don’t get to make that choice for us.”

Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t look away. “James—”

“You promised me,” I say, my voice cracking wide open. “You promised you’d let us handle this. That you’d stay with me.”

“I know,” she whispers. “But I can’t let your brother die because of me.”

That does it.

Something inside my chest gives way completely—not in anger, but in terror so sharp it steals the air from my lungs.

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to live with?” I shout, no longer caring who hears. “What you’re asking Tyler to live with? Do you think saving him will mean anything to either of us if it means sacrificing you in the process?”

Victor hums, pleased. “Wow. Such vulnerable honesty. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were deeply in love with my Dove, James.”

I ignore him completely. Instead, I turn on the room—on Zeb, on Dominick. The men I’ve been counting on to stop this. To fix this. To end this nightmare.

“You’re letting this happen,” I accuse hoarsely. “You’re both standing there bleak-faced, like this is some kind of unwinnable chess match, and it’s not. This is my brother. This is the woman I love. This is my fucking life.”

“Don’t blame them, James. This isn’t their fault.” She steps into me then, wrapping her arms around like she’s trying to keep me anchored to reality.

My hands shake as they come around her. My voice gone—scraped raw by fear.

“I can’t lose him, Annelly. But I can’t lose you, either. I won’t survive it. I can’t live in a world where one or both of you aren’t a part of my life. I won’t want to.”

She reaches for my face, trying to tell me something—trying to make me understand—but my rattled mind can’t hold onto anything except the terror of the impossible choice closing in around me.

“As touching as this is,” Victor says calmly, “I’m afraid there’s only one choice here, James. You return my Dove in exchange for your brother, or I kill him and then come for her anyway. Either way, you lose.”

I close my eyes as the words carve themselves into me, injecting something poisonous and irreversible into my psyche.

As much as I wish it weren’t so, Victor is right about one thing.

There is no version of this where I walk away untainted. Unscarred.

In my arms, the woman I love tips her face up toward mine. She’s trembling, but her eyes are resolute even through the fear. Her lips move, tears pooling as she whispers the most devastating words anyone has ever said to me.

“ Please , James. Let me do this for you .“

Something inside me fractures.

Because this is the woman I love—offering herself up, sacrificing her safety, her freedom—for me. For Tyler.

For the first time since this nightmare began, I truly see it—how badly she needs this. For me to say yes and let her save us. For me to understand how terrified she is for Tyler. For me. How convinced she is that this— this sacrifice —is the only way to stop this madness. The only way to save my brother.

No one has ever done anything like this for us.

No one has ever chosen us like this.

The realization hits harder than any threat Victor has made, carving straight through the certainty I built over a lifetime—the belief that selfless love like this doesn’t exist. Not for men like me. Not for boys like us.

Even so, I know it down to the depths of my soul that when it comes to sacrificing herself to save us, she couldn’t be more wrong.

But I also recognize this is a fight I won’t win right now. Not with fear burning through her like this. Not with Victor still on the goddamn phone, needling and twisting every fragile thread of it tighter.

No.

I need to end this.

Get Victor to commit to an exchange point.

Get him off the line.

Then I can get back to figuring out how to save both my brother and the woman I love—because there has to be a way, and I refuse to stop until I find it.

“Fine.” The word leaves my mouth hard, scraping my throat raw. “But you come to us. To a place of my choosing. You bring my brother to me—unharmed—and she’s yours.”

Annelly’s eyes never leave mine as silent tears slip free, tracking down her cheeks. Whether it’s fear, relief, or devastation that I would even say those words, I can’t tell.

And the possibility that it’s the last one guts me.

Victor laughs—completely unaware of what’s shattering between Annelly and me.

“No. I don’t think so.” He clicks his tongue, like I’m a child who needs correcting. “That’s not how this is going to work. But tell you what—” His voice stays easy. Pleasant. As if we’re planning a dinner reservation instead of discussing the fate of the people I love most in this world. “I’ll look into it. Figure something out. Put together a plan. Then I’ll call you. Sound good?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

“Oh—and James. One last thing.”

My skin goes cold.

“When she left me, she was as pure as a white dove.” He pauses, letting the image rot in the air between us. “She better be returned to me in the same condition.”

I feel Annelly stiffen against me.

“If I find out you’ve soiled her, if you’ve taken the virginity that was never yours to take, I swear to God I’ll slice her throat and send her back to you piece by fucking piece. Do we have an understanding?”

And with that disgusting threat hanging heavy in the air, the line finally clicks dead.

❤️

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# Chapter 11

James

For a moment, no one moves.

The room feels sealed shut, like the air itself has thickened—stale and pressing in on us. Screens glow softly along the walls. Equipment hums, obnoxiously loud in the silence Victor left behind.

Zeb exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. 

Dominick is typing, fingers moving fast, ruthless in their efficiency.

"No trace," Dominick says after a beat. His jaw tightens. "Signal was masked from the moment it hit the network."

Zeb nods once, unsurprised. "He knew we'd try."

Of course he did.

Victor never does anything without accounting for every possible angle. Every possible move. That, paired with his utter disregard for others and his complete lack of conscience, is what makes him so damn dangerous.

"Didn't even get a ghost ping," Owen adds over comms, his voice crackling slightly, edged with frustration. "Whoever's helping him knows what they're doing."

I absorb the words without reacting.

Outwardly, I'm calm. Hands loose at my sides. Breathing steady. 

Inside, everything is vibrating.

Adrenaline hums through my blood like live wire—tight, buzzing, coiled so hard it feels like my bones might crack under the pressure. I catalog the information automatically. No trace. No lead. Nothing concrete to chase.

Then I lock it away.

There will be time for rage later.

For panic.

For the unraveling.

Just not yet.

Zeb glances at me, searching my face for signs of fracture. "We'll keep digging," he promises. "If there's even a sliver—"

"Just find him," I cut in quietly. "It's all I ask." I try to mask the helplessness bleeding into my voice, but it's a wasted effort. It spills out anyway.

Zeb holds my gaze for a moment, then nods. "We will. You have my word."

But I'm already done listening to their promises.

My attention shifts—because Annelly hasn't moved since the call ended.

She's standing exactly where I left her, arms wrapped tight around herself like she's bracing against a cold only she can feel. Her face is pale. Too still. Her eyes aren't unfocused or panicked the way one would expect.

Instead, they're resolved.

And that terrifies me more than anything else, because I know that look.

I've worn it myself many times before.

She's already decided.

The realization hits low and sharp, lodging beneath my ribs like a blade I don't have time to pull out.

Victor thinks the leverage to get me to do what he wants is Tyler, but he couldn't be more wrong. The real danger to me—to both of us—is the woman standing in front of me. Quiet. Brave. Already prepared to make the selfless choice to save my brother.

And this is when I know, with sickening certainty, that if I don't act now—if I don't change the trajectory of where this is headed—she'll walk straight into the monster's lair believing it's the only way.

Ill-equipped.

Unprotected.

Willing.

My stomach sours.

I've already failed Tyler. I'll be damned if I let that happen to her, too.

I'm across the room before anyone can stop me. Before Zeb can open his mouth. Before someone else says something well-meaning and wrong.

I stop in front of Annelly.

Up close, the resolve in her eyes is even more pronounced. It's quiet. Controlled. The kind that's already set in motion, like what comes next is inevitable and only a matter of time. 

And right then, I understand what's happening.

She's waiting. Not for instructions.

What she's waiting for is my permission.

Which is so much fucking worse, because I know—deep in my bones—that Victor has already won.

He's turned her sacrifice into a weapon. One aimed straight at me.

If I let her go, she'll remember that when it mattered most—when my brother's life was on the line—I stood back and let her offer herself up to a madman without so much as a fight.

And if I stop her—if I cage her here against her will to keep her safe—she'll remember that when it mattered most to 
her
, I didn't trust her enough to choose what was right for herself.

Either way, Victor has set it up so I lose something I might never get back.

Her trust. 

Her faith in me.

The monster inside me rears, frantic and clawing. It's why I don't touch her. Why I don't crowd her. Why I don't let myself get too close—because I don't trust what I might do if I let myself forget, even for a second, that she isn't something to be guarded and treated like property.

"Annelly..." I keep my voice calm, even as everything inside me roars. "Will you come with me?"

Her eyes flicker, searching my face for answers I'm determined not to give.

"I need you with me," I add. "I need to show you." 

It's all I have in me to offer right now.

No explanation.

No reassurance.

No promises I can't afford to make.

She studies me for a beat longer, then nods.

Only then do I take her hand. My fingers shake as they weave through hers—not to pull her along, not to steer, but to anchor her to me. To remind myself there's still time. That this doesn't have to end the way Victor wants it to.

I don't look back at the team as we pass. They don't ask questions or try to stop us, and I'm grateful for that. 

For the moment, they can handle the tactics, the tracking, the intel.

While me?

My job right now is to make sure Annelly is ready for what's coming. 

And to make sure I don't lose her before I get the chance to save her.

The door closes behind us, and the cool air hits my face—sharp but clean—carrying the damp scent of earth and pine instead of recycled heat and electronics. Spring hasn't fully arrived yet, but it's trying. The ground is soft beneath our boots, dark with the rare patch of new growth, shoots of bright green pushing through like nature itself is celebrating the fact that winter has finally loosened its grip.

Annelly breathes out beside me, slow and steady.

We walk without speaking, leaving behind everything that connects us to the nightmare—the radios, the computer screens, the grim-faced men pretending their presence isn't a sign of the war coming for us all.

Out here, there's no hum of machines. No voices in my ear reminding me of everything I stand to lose.

No.

Out here it's just us, the sound of the breeze moving through the branches and the occasional birdsong—faint, tentative, but alive. Resilient. Proof that even after a long, brutal winter, life still survives.

This is where my shoulders finally relax.

This is where I remember who I am when I'm not caged inside four walls with the monster beating in my chest.

Beside me, Annelly stumbles over a half-hidden root, and I tighten my grip without thinking, steadying her before she can even react.

"Careful," I murmur.

She huffs softly, more breath than sound. "You'd think after everything, it wouldn't be a tree root that takes me out."

The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. It's not funny—but the fact that she can still laugh at herself, even now, tells me everything I need to know. This is her doing what she does best. 

Helping to ground me.

Helping to ground 
us.

We keep walking. 

Her fingers stay wrapped around mine, and after a few steps our breathing falls into rhythm, our bodies syncing like this is how we were always meant to be.

This is the stillness after chaos.

The place where she and I can coexist and just be.

We veer deeper into the trees, sunlight filtering through bare branches, painting the forest floor in soft gold and breaking up the shadows. She turns her face, taking it all in, curiosity flickering through those beautiful—but still cautious—green eyes.

"What is this place?" she asks.

"My thinking spot," I say, making a half-hearted attempt at humor.

She glances at me, one brow lifting. "Well, that sounds dangerous."

A short, rough laugh slips out of me—real enough to loosen something tight in my chest. "You have no idea."

We reach a small clearing, the earth packed down from years of weather and time. I stop there, finally releasing her hand, though it takes more effort than it should.

Out here—without walls, without witnesses, without Victor's voice crawling under my skin—I feel more like myself again. Not the man negotiating with monsters. Not the one carrying the weight of impossible choices.

Just a man standing in the woods with the woman he loves, trying to remember how to protect without controlling. How to prepare for what's coming without breaking us both.

Annelly looks at me then, curiosity cutting through the fear that—thankfully—is no longer swallowing her whole.

"Can you tell me now?" she asks gently. "What are we doing out here, James?"

❤️

 
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REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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Chapter 12

James

I don’t answer right away because that booming voice inside my head tells me to stop.

Forget this.

Get her back inside.

Protect her.

From the violence. From the blood. From having to make the kind of impossible choice that forever taints your soul—the kind that stains and corrupts in a way that never quite washes clean.

That’s the old instinct in me. The one who wants to wrap her up and lock her away, keep her safe and untouched by a world determined to scar her the same way it scarred me.

But the truth presses in just as hard.

Victor doesn’t care about protecting her soul. He doesn’t care about keeping her safe. And he sure as hell doesn’t care what she deserves.

And if he manages to take me off the board—if I’m not there when it matters most—then keeping her oblivious to his brand of evil won’t save her.

It will only leave her vulnerable.

Helpless.

The thought makes something vicious coil in my chest. Rage—sharp and hungry. The part of me that wants blood. Wants retribution. Wants to burn Victor’s world to the ground for forcing this choice on me at all.

The monster is loud right now. Relentless. Furious.

And that’s what worries me.

Because speaking while its claws are dug in this deep means I might say something I can’t take back. I might turn this into a demand instead of a choice. I might scare her. Hurt her. Push her—one way or the other—before she’s ready.

I refuse to do that.

So I breathe.

Once.

Then again.

Until the noise inside me settles just enough that I can trust myself not to become the very monster I’m trying to protect her from.

Instead of answering her, I decide it’s better to show her.

I turn slightly, angling my body as I reach beneath my sweatshirt for the gun holstered at my waist. When my fingers close around the familiar weight, my chest tightens.

I bring my hand back into view and open my palm, the gun resting there—dark and solid against my skin.

I don’t raise it.

I don’t point it.

I don’t explain.

I just let her see it.

Her gaze drops instantly, breath catching for half a second before she steadies it again. Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t step back. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, she just looks at it. Like she’s trying to understand what this means before deciding how to feel about it.

Before fear can take root, I finally speak.

“Before we go any further,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and even—relaxed in a way I definitely don’t feel. “I need you to hear me.”

Her eyes lift to mine.

“I’m not asking you to use it,” I say. “And I’m not asking you to like it.” I swallow, the words heavier than they should be. “What I’m asking is that you give it a chance. Give me a chance—to show you, to teach you, to give you the option of knowing what to do if the need ever arises.”

Her breath stutters. Her eyes shimmer. Her mouth opens like she wants to say something—but nothing comes out.

So I keep going.

“What you did before—running to get free of him—that was smart.” My jaw tightens despite myself. “That choice kept you alive. It brought you home. To safety. To the team.”

To me, that voice inside me adds.

Her throat works as she swallows, eyes shining but steady.

“But running isn’t always possible,” I continue quietly. “And I don’t want that to be the only option you have.”

Because I can’t promise I’ll always be there.

Because history has already proven I’m often too late.

Tyler’s face flashes through my mind, and the guilt slams into me hard enough that I have to stop. To swallow. To breathe through the ache tightening my chest.

I drag a hand over my mouth, over the rough scruff of my jaw, hoping it’s enough to hide the tremor in my chin.

“Know this isn’t an order,” I say once I trust my voice again. “It’s a choice.” I pause, making sure she understands that part most of all. “You don’t have to do anything that doesn’t feel right to you .”

The words cost me more than I let on. Letting go always does. I drop my gaze to the ground between us so she won’t see it—so she won’t feel pressured into choosing this just because it’s what I want.

“I know it’s a lot,” I add quietly. “But if there ever comes a time when I’m not there—when I can’t get to you…” My voice roughens. “…I’d feel better knowing you know how to use one of these.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything.

She just looks at me like she’s weighing not just the weapon, but what touching it, learning it, might mean.

Then she nods. “Okay.”

Something in my chest loosens.

I close my fingers around the gun, instinctively checking the safety—muscle memory taking over.

“We’ll start with the basics. Remember—you call the shots here. If you reach a point where you’re uncomfortable, you tell me. We stop.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“I know,” she says softly. “I understand. And I appreciate it.”

And I realize she’s not just talking about the gun.

I take a step closer—not enough to crowd her, just enough that she knows I’m there. That I’ve got her.

“This part matters more than any other.”

I bring the gun back into view, keeping it angled down and away from both of us. My movements are slow. Deliberate. Every habit I’ve built over the years stripped back to intention instead of instinct.

“Before you even think about touching a gun,” I say, “you need to know how to handle it safely. That starts with the safety being engaged. Always. Until you’re ready to discharge the weapon.”

Her attention sharpens immediately. No fear. No bravado. Just focus.

So far, so good.

I show her how to check the safety. How to hold the weapon, adjusting her hands until they’re placed just right—until she can feel the balance and weight of it before her mind has a chance to get ahead of her body.

I don’t rush.

I don’t overwhelm her.

Right now, it’s about familiarity. About making her comfortable.

“Your finger stays off the trigger,” I say, guiding her hand gently with mine. “Outside the trigger guard. Until you’re aligned on the target and have made the conscious decision to shoot.”

I look at her. “Repeat that back to me.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Finger off the trigger. Outside the trigger guard until I’m ready to shoot.”

Pride hits me hard enough that I have to swallow it down.

“Good,” I say instead. “Now—see that no trespassing sign? On that tree right there?”

She nods.

“That’s your target. With the safety still on, I want you to aim.”

She re-checks the safety is on—slow and careful—then raises the gun, pointing it toward the tree.

“Like this?” she asks.

“Almost,” I murmur.

I step in behind her, close enough that she can feel the heat of my body at her back. My hands slide over hers, careful and steady, adjusting her angle by degrees instead of inches.

“Your dominant hand controls the grip,” I tell her softly. “Your support hand”—my fingers skim her other hand, settling it where it belongs—“keeps you steady.”

The touch is purposeful. Professional.

And still—charged.

Her shoulders ease as she listens, trusting me enough to let go of the tension she probably didn’t even realize she was holding.

We stay like that for a moment. Her hands cradled in mine. Our breathing slowly finding the same rhythm.

In.

Out.

Calm.

Relaxed.

I guide her stance next, showing her how to ground herself without locking her body, how to stay loose enough to absorb the recoil when it comes.

“That’s it,” I murmur. “You’ve got it.”

Her mouth curves just slightly, like the encouragement lands exactly where she needs it.

“Now tell me,” I say quietly. “What are you feeling? What are you thinking?”

She hesitates. “It’s… heavier than I expected. Not just physically. But what it’s meant to do. What it would mean to have to use it.”

I step back then—not because I want to, but because I need the space to answer her honestly.

“That part doesn’t change, unfortunately,” I say.

She looks over at me then, eyes searching. “Does it get easier?”

I think about all the times I’ve held that weapon. All the times I felt compelled to use it—either to protect myself or someone else.

“No,” I admit. “But you get more comfortable with it. With knowing that if the time ever comes, you’ll know what to do.”

That seems to settle her.

She asks more questions after that. Thoughtful ones. About recoil. About noise. About whether it will hurt. About what to do if her hands shake.

I answer everything. Without judgment. Without softening the truth. Making sure she understands this isn’t about being perfect.

It’s about trust.

In herself.

In the weapon.

In the knowledge that whether she pulls the trigger or not, the choice will always be hers.

She exhales slowly—like she’s been holding more than just her breath.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “I think I’m ready to try.”

I study her for a moment, taking in the way she stands now. More grounded. More sure.

Not a woman being taught to fight back.

But a woman learning how to take a stand.

❤️

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# Chapter 13

Annelly

We walk back toward the cabin hand in hand, the late-afternoon sun filtering through the trees. The air smells like pine and damp earth, like the woods are exhaling after another long spring day.

My muscles still hum faintly from the lesson—a mix of residual tension, adrenaline, and prolonged focus—but it's James I'm really paying attention to.

He's unusually quiet. Not withdrawn exactly. Just... contained. His movements are deliberate in a way that suggests calm, but it doesn't take much searching to see the truth beneath them. He's holding himself together by sheer force of will.

His thumb brushes slow, absentminded circles over the back of my hand—grounding and familiar—but even that feels off. 

And I know why.

Tyler.

It's been two days since Victor's call. Two days of nothing—no instructions, no exchange point, no next move. Just the echo of his threats hanging over us, a low, constant hum of danger that never quite fades.

James hates the waiting.

I see it in the tight set of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches whenever the radio crackles. In the way his eyes track every shadow, every movement, like it might suddenly turn into an answer. He's made it clear—over and over—that he'll find another way. That he'll save us both. That he won't let Victor decide how this ends.

I don't argue.

I don't plead.

I don't tell him what I already know.

When the time comes, I'll do what needs to be done. Just like I know he would—if our roles were reversed.

So instead, I've been doing this. Taking everything in.

Every quiet morning in the cabin. Every shared meal. Every tense-but-meaningful moment with the others, even when the air feels stretched thin with unspoken fear. I linger in the small things—the sound of James's chuckle in those rare moments he forgets what we're facing. The way Zeb and Dominick pretend not to watch us while still always keeping an eye out. The comfort of routine wrapped tightly around danger.

I'm building something inside myself.

Memories I'll need later, when I'm trapped in Victor's world and desperate for something solid to hold on to.

Even the bittersweet ones.

Like the moment we just shared.

We were packing up the weapons after yet another shooting lesson when James said it—his voice low, threaded with something that stung behind my eyes.

"I'm proud of you, Snowflake. I hope you are too."

I was. 

God, I was. 

The progress I'd made in just two days surprised us both. But it wasn't the praise that lodged itself in my chest.

It was the look in his eyes.

Too earnest. Too weighted. Like he was afraid this might be the last time he ever got to say it. Like he knows days like today might be numbered.

And I get it. 

I'm pretending not to feel it too. Pretending we're not living on borrowed time, even as it ticks down with every step we take.

I squeeze his hand a little tighter, committing the shape of it to memory—the warmth, the strength, the quiet promise of 
now
.

Whatever happens later, this moment is mine. And I refuse to let it slip away without taking note—without adding it to the inventory of memories I'll carry with me, no matter what comes next.

We're almost past the lake when I spot them.

At first, I think it's a trick of the light—two pale shapes drifting where the water opens up, sunlight catching on the ripples of water behind them as they move. 

I slow without meaning to, my steps faltering.

"James," I murmur, tugging gently on his hand. "Wait."

He stops instantly. No hesitation. His attention shifts to me like it always does.

"What is it?"

I point.

Two swans glide across the lake, their bodies bright against the darker water, their necks curved in easy symmetry. They move slowly, deliberately, as if the rest of the world doesn't exist beyond the space they share.

My chest tightens.

Trumpeter swans are rare here. I know that. I've lived on the East Coast long enough to understand how unusual this is—how unlikely, given their migratory patterns, especially this far south. They aren't the kind of birds you expect to see on a whim in the western mountains of Virginia.

Which makes this sighting feel... significant.

Because if they're here, it's because this place means something to them.

"They're trumpeters," I say softly, afraid that raising my voice might scare them away.

James follows my gaze, something in his posture easing the moment he spots them. 

"Yeah," he agrees. "Looks like it."

"Can we—" I hesitate, suddenly afraid of asking for too much. It's close to dinner, and I know how much the routine of preparing it matters to him. "Can we stop for a minute?"

"Of course," he says immediately. No questions. No hesitation. Just a simple yes.

He leads the way to a large boulder near the edge of the lake, worn smooth by time and weather. James settles first, then shifts so I can sit beside him—close enough that our shoulders brush. The stone is cool beneath my palms, solid and grounding, like it's been waiting here for us.

The lake is impossibly still, broken only by the gentle wake the swans leave behind. They move in tandem, close but not touching, their paths perfectly aligned. When one shifts, the other follows—without effort, without command, without hesitation.

I breathe in slowly.

Out here, the world feels paused. Suspended in a fragile pocket of safety, even as the threat of Victor still lingers beyond the trees.

And yet.

The swans glide on. Unaware. Unbothered. Life continuing unencumbered by fear of tomorrow. Of what could be. Of men determined to destroy beautiful things.

As if he senses the weight settling in my chest, James's arm slips around me, pulling me close.

I lean into him, letting the silence wrap around us.

"You know they mate for life?" I ask quietly.

James hums beside me, his arm tightening just a fraction around my shoulders.

"Once they choose a partner, that's it," I continue, pretending my heart isn't cracking beneath the surface. "They stay together year after year. Traveling the wild together. Returning to the same places—the same lakes, the same stretches of water. And every spring, they come back to their nesting site. Lay their eggs. Raise their chicks. Over and over, together for a lifetime."

I pause, watching the pair drift closer to the far shore, unhurried. Unafraid.

"And if one of them dies," I add more carefully, "the other one mourns. Some of them—especially the males—never take another mate."

James presses a kiss to my temple. Gentle. Familiar. Exactly right.

"Sounds lonely," he murmurs. Then, after a beat, "But... I understand it."

"Me too," I whisper on a quiet sigh. "But it's also kind of beautiful."

His thumb traces slow circles against my upper arm—grounding, soothing. He's doing everything right. Listening. Responding. Touching me like I matter. Like we're okay. Like nothing is splintering inside him, even though it's so obvious to me.

It's probably why I can't stop talking.

"They're also one of the heaviest flying birds," I say. "They need a long stretch of open water just to take off. Enough space. Enough momentum. They can't rush it—not even to escape a predator. If they don't have enough room, enough speed, they don't make it."

"That's... not very reassuring," he says lightly.

I smile, though he can't see it. "Yeah. But look at them. They don't seem too worried, do they?"

He smiles too—I feel it in the way his cheek lifts against my temple before he presses another soft kiss.

"No. They seem pretty chill to me."

Then he exhales.

Long. Tired.

And it tells me everything.

He's exhausted. Yet doing and saying all the right things—probably to spare me.

The realization settles heavy in my chest.

I let the silence stretch, because I don't trust myself to speak without giving something away.

He kisses the side of my hairline and squeezes my shoulder. "You okay?"

Always checking on me. Always making sure I'm alright—even now, when I can feel the strain buzzing just beneath his skin.

I can't let him carry this alone. Not now. Not when time already feels so fragile.

I draw in a slow breath, steadying myself. Then I turn toward him, threading my fingers through his where they rest against my arm.

"Tell me a story," I say softly.

He looks down at me, surprise flickering across his face. "A story?"

I nod. "Yeah. Tell me about you and Tyler. About what it was like when you finally got him back."

His brows knit together, hesitation giving way to something deeper. Something he's kept guarded for a long time. A place that still hurts. 

He lets out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in his chest for days.

"Really?" He shakes his head faintly. "It's not exactly an uplifting story. More like the worst year of my entire life."

I tilt my face up toward his, offering a small, almost playful smile. "Oh... well. Now you have to tell me."

For a moment, he doesn't look at me. His gaze drifts back to the water, to the swans carving slow paths through the reflected sky.

"I'm afraid there's not much to tell," he says quietly. "Unless you enjoy stories about angry, rebellious fourteen-year-old boys and immature, clueless eighteen-year-old men."

"Sounds like my kind of story."

To my surprise, he chuckles. A real one.

I close my eyes and commit the sound of it to memory.

"Well," he begins, "when they finally approved it and let him come home with me, I thought our luck had finally turned. We'd been separated almost four years. We talked once a month, maybe, but it had been over three years since I'd last laid eyes on him." He shakes his head slowly. "In my mind, I was bringing home the ten-year-old version of my brother. The kid who followed me everywhere. Who trusted me. Who laughed easy."

His chuckle fades, replaced by something heavier.

"What showed up instead was an angry fourteen-year-old who barely spoke to me unless it was to tell me to go fuck myself."

My fingers tighten around his instinctively. Protective.

"He was pissed at everything," James continues. "The system. The world. Me. Especially me. He pushed constantly. Broke rules just to see if I'd react. Dared me—damn near every day—to give up on him and send him back."

His jaw flexes. I can feel the tension humming through him.

"And the truth?" he says quietly. "I was scared to death. I'd just turned eighteen. I had no idea what I was doing. I was barely holding it together myself. Terrified I'd screw him up worse than he already was."

The swans drift closer, their reflections blurring and reforming with each ripple.

"For almost a year, it was like that," he says. "Every day felt like a test I was failing."

I hear it then—the exhaustion beneath his words. The younger version of him. Stubborn. Scared. Refusing to quit anyway.

"And then one day something changed."

He glances down at me, just briefly.

"I don't even know what did it. There was no big moment. No conversation. He just came home different. Softer." James exhales. "Like he finally got tired of torturing me. Or maybe he decided to finally believe I wasn't going anywhere."

My chest squeezes as I imagine what that breakthrough must have felt like.

"After that, things got easier. He stopped pushing so hard. Started trusting me. We figured it out—slowly. Became friends first. Then brothers again." He swallows, emotion thickening his voice. "We've been inseparable ever since."

The words settle between us, heavy and fragile.

"If it's any consolation," I say softly, "you did a great job with him. He's grown into a really good man. I liked him from the moment I met him."

"Don't remind me," James groans. "While you were busy hating me—cutting me off at the knees with your silence and those death daggers you shot my way—you were giving him your kind eyes." He shakes his head. "It hurt my fucking feelings. First time I ever considered kicking my little brother's ass."

I laugh unexpectedly, somehow breaking through the weight pressing down on my chest.

"Christ," he mutters, smiling sheepishly. "I sound like such a loser."

"No, you don't." I lace my fingers through his. "I really hated that, you know. Having to dredge up all that anger every time I saw you. It was exhausting." I look away, my voice quieter. "Because deep down, I wasn't mad." 

I swallow. "I was just hurt."

"I'm sorry," he says. And this time, there's no armor in it. No deflection. Just truth. "Pushing you away... I think I'll regret it for the rest of my life."

❤️

 
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Chapter 14

Annelly

“I know,” I tell him honestly, looking away, hating the sadness and regret etched across his face.

This isn’t what I intended when I started this conversation. And I hate myself a little for letting it land here.

I don’t rush to fill the silence—not because I’m being careful, but because I can’t. My chest aches too sharply, grief swelling there without warning. Not just for what he’s lost. Not even for everything we’ve already endured.

But for what’s circling us now.

For what’s coming.

For Tyler.

The swans drift farther along the shoreline, their white feathers stark against the dark water, completely unbothered by the tension wrapped around us. Watching them hurts more than it should. Two souls moving in quiet devotion, untouched by fear, only makes the hollow inside me feel louder.

I swallow hard and lean into James, resting my head against his shoulder. His hand tightens reflexively around mine, as if anchoring himself to the present. To me.

Everything lately bends back to this.

Loss.

Fear.

The question of how much time we really have.

It doesn’t matter where a conversation starts or how gently we approach it. Somehow, it always finds its way here—back to Victor, back to Tyler, back to the possibility that this moment, too, could become something I’m remembering instead of living.

My throat tightens.

I hadn’t meant for it to go there when I asked him for a story. I wasn’t trying to reopen old wounds. I just wanted to hear his voice. To remind him—and myself—that there is more to him than survival. More to us than waiting for the next threat to fall.

But pain has its own gravity. And lately, everything seems to get pulled into its orbit.

James stares out at the water, jaw set, eyes distant. He looks older like this. Tired in a way sleep can’t touch. The kind of tired that comes from carrying too much responsibility for too long, from believing that if anything breaks, it will be because you didn’t hold it tightly enough.

I close my eyes and let the quiet settle.

For a moment, it feels unbearable—this stillness, this knowing. Like if I breathe too deeply, I might crack open and spill everything I’ve been trying so hard to keep contained.

But then something else takes shape beneath it.

Resolve.

James is buried under the weight of his regrets. What he fears. What he thinks he should have done differently. I can’t take that from him—but maybe I can help him see past it. Even if only a little at a time. Even if it’s just enough to remind him that his life didn’t begin and end with loss.

That he built something.

That he survived.

That because of his strength and stubborn refusal to give up, he saved not only himself, but his brother.

I draw in a slow, steady breath and decide it’s time to change the direction of his story.

I lift my head from his shoulder and look up at him, taking in the familiar lines of his face—the tension he tries and fails to hide, the way his eyes stay fixed on the water like it might offer answers.

“Well,” I say lightly, nudging his knee with mine, “that got heavy fast, huh?”

A corner of his mouth twitches. Barely there, but it’s something.

“You asked for a story,” he murmurs with a shrug. “That’s usually how all my stories end.”

“I believe you think that,” I say gently. “But there’s more.” I tip my head, studying him. “So much more you should be proud to talk about.” I smile. “Like the house. Tell me about the house.”

He exhales through his nose, caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “The house?”

“Yes. The house,” I repeat, letting the teasing slip in. “The one you somehow built out of sheer willpower, stubbornness, and whatever energy you had left after raising a traumatized teenager.”

That gets him.

A genuine smile flickers across his face, brief but unmistakable. A flash of pride, he quickly tucks away.

“Come on,” I add. “I’m serious. I want to know how that happened. How you and Tyler went from two angry, traumatized kids to… where you are now.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s not exactly a heroic tale.”

“Good,” I say. “Those are overrated. And usually exaggerated.”

He glances at me then, something lighter breaking through. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” I tuck my legs beneath me and turn fully toward him. “So. Start talking, Serrano. Where did it all come from? The house. The toys. The life of the ultimate bachelor.”

He drops his head back with a soft groan. “Jesus, Annelly. Do we really have to talk about this?”

I laugh—because his embarrassment is genuine, and because it’s absurdly endearing. The color rising in his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears, looks wildly out of place on a man like him.

“Yes,” I say, grinning. “We really, really do.”

He tries for annoyance, but his eyes give him away—soft, disbelieving, a little awed that we’re even here, having this conversation.

“You mean the ridiculous amount of crap Tyler insists on calling ‘necessities’?” he asks dryly.

I grin. “That. And the ATVs. The dirt bikes. The snowboards. Then there’s the boat and jet skis.” I laugh. “And the helicopter, James. You have a damn helicopter.”

His face heats instantly. “Can’t we just pretend you didn’t see any of that?”

“Absolutely not. Once you see something like that, there’s no unseeing it.”

He sighs, long and resigned. “God. You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Never,” I say sweetly. “But you love me anyway.”

He snorts, shaking his head like he can’t believe it himself. “Yeah. I really do.”

He pulls me close, pressing a quick kiss to the top of my head. Then he takes a deep breath, like he’s gathering the courage to continue.

“Okay,” he says. “But I’m warning you. If you’re expecting some grand rags-to-riches story, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“I doubt that.”

He lets out a soft huff of a laugh. “Trust me. I’m not that smart. Most of it was rock-bottom desperation and dumb luck.”

I arch a brow and squeeze his hand. “You’re not helping your case. Like, at all. Now stop stalling. Explain.”

James stares out at the lake a moment longer, like he’s deciding how honest to be.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Here’s the unglamorous version.”

I settle in, giving him my full attention.

“Money was… tight,” he admits. “Tighter than I ever wanted Tyler to realize. Ben and Dom were just starting to build OTS, so security work was hit or miss. In between, I took whatever I could get—construction, retail, odd jobs that barely covered rent, let alone utilities and food.” His mouth quirks. “Pride made it worse. Ben offered to help whenever he could, but I refused. I didn’t want to be a charity case.”

That part doesn’t surprise me. It tracks with who James is.

“Eventually, desperation won out,” he continues. “I went back to Pleasantview. Took a job bouncing at a club. Long nights. Decent pay. Enough to keep the lights on and Tyler fed.” He pauses, glancing at me. “And apparently enough to get me noticed.”

“Not surprising,” I say dryly. “You’re too good-looking for your own good.”

He snorts, and that familiar swagger slides back into place. “Yeah, well. This woman kept showing up. Well-dressed. Way too polished for the place. I thought she was into me at first—”

“Because of course you did,” I interrupt lightly.

He laughs, shaking his head. “Turned out she was a modeling agent.”

I blink. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.” He grimaces. “When she told me, I laughed in her face. Said I’d heard better pickup lines, and she’d better try again.”

“Of course you did.”

“Of course I did,” he agrees. “But she didn’t let it go. Kept coming back. Leaving her card. Making promises about money and opportunity.” His shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Eventually I figured… why not?”

“To modeling?” I gape. “You were a model?”

He nods. “I was good at it,” he admits after a beat. Not proud—just factual. “Better than I expected. One job turned into another. Then bigger ones. Print. Runway. New York. L.A. Paris. Then acting gigs after that.”

“Acting?” I gasp.

“Don’t get too excited,” he warns. “That part I was bad at.”

I laugh, and despite himself, he smiles.

“Luckily, it was my looks they were after,” he continues. “For that alone, I got paid. And the money…” He exhales. “It was ridiculous. Free travel. Luxury hotels. Access to things I didn’t even know existed.”

His gaze drifts back to the water.

“Tyler loved it. The travel. The perks. The constant flood of expensive toys and gifts. Being homeschooled so he could come with me, see the world.” His voice softens. “To him, it was an adventure. The best thing that had ever happened to him.”

“But not to you,” I say quietly.

His smile fades.

“To me, it felt like a prison. Like constantly being on display,” he says. “Watched. Managed. Controlled.” His jaw tightens. “People deciding where I went, what I wore, who I talked to. Who I was allowed to be, every minute of the fucking day. It was suffocating.”

The lake laps gently against the shore.

“Everyone kept telling me how lucky I was,” he continues. “How I’d made it.’” He exhales slowly. “But I hated it. Every bit of it.”

I don’t rush him.

“To Tyler—and everyone else—it looked like freedom,” he says finally, turning to me. “But it wasn’t. Not to me.”

I meet his gaze. “What did you want instead?”

His answer comes without hesitation.

“Stability. A proper home. For Tyler. For me.” His voice lowers. “Freedom on my own terms.”

He looks back out at the lake.

“And I realized I wasn’t going to find any of that if I stayed in that life.”

James falls quiet, his gaze fixed on the swans drifting farther along the shoreline, like he’s watching something recede into memory.

“So I quit,” he says at last.

I turn fully toward him. “You just… quit?”

He nods. “After almost three years.” A corner of his mouth lifts, rueful. “My agent thought I was out of my mind.”

“I’m sure.”

“They all did,” he says. “Everyone told me I was walking away from financial security. From opportunity. From a life people would kill for.” His shoulders rise in a small shrug. “But none of it felt like mine.”

There’s no regret in his voice. Just a quiet, settled certainty.

“I’d saved damn near every penny I made,” he continues. “With some help from a guy Ben knew, I invested smart. We lived well below our means, even when no one understood why.” His eyes flick briefly to mine. “Tyler didn’t need more things. What he needed was roots.”

My chest tightens.

“So I bought the land,” he says. “Far enough out of the noise. Far enough that I could breathe. That we could finally feel safe.” His voice softens. “I built the house myself. Piece by piece. Made mistakes. Tore things down. Started over when I had to.”

I can picture it—James alone on raw land, hammer in hand. Stubborn enough to believe the best things had to be built slowly. Deliberately. With his own two hands.

“It wasn’t fast,” he admits. “Or easy. But it was ours.” His mouth curves faintly. “And it was perfect. At least to us.”

He looks at me then, eyes shining with something complicated and tender.

“After that, I went back to OTS. Business had finally picked up, and it was exactly what I needed. Structure. Purpose. A way to protect what I was building instead of always feeling like I had to defend it.”

The pieces slide into place with quiet clarity.

Everything James does is about building a home—not just the structure, but what it stands for. Safety. Permanence. Belonging. A place no one can take away from him.

“I wanted Tyler to grow up knowing where he belonged,” James says softly. “Knowing he wasn’t temporary. That he wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was I.”

I swallow past the ache rising in my throat.

“And all the toys?” I ask gently, nudging his knee with mine, trying to keep the moment light.

He huffs, embarrassed. “Those?”

“Yes, those.”

A sheepish smile tugs at his mouth. “They’re freedom. Earned. Controlled. Joy without strings attached.” He glances at me. “I wanted him to have fun. To feel like a kid again. To enjoy all the opportunities life has to offer, especially after pulling him out of a glamorous life that never truly belonged to us.”

“And you?” I ask quietly. “What did you want, James? For yourself?”

His answer is softer than everything that came before.

“All I ever wanted was my brother,” he says. “For him to be happy. Whole. To always feel safe with me.” He exhales. “From the moment he was born… I think that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Something inside me settles—and breaks—at the same time.

This, I realize, is who James is at his core.

Not a warrior of destruction as he sees himself.

Not even the protector I once believed him to be.

But a builder.

A man who creates safety where none exists. Who strives to give others the stability and security the world never gave him.

And sitting here beside him, watching the swans drift slowly away—so sure of each other, so untouched by the fear and uncertainty that keep circling us—I make a silent vow.

If I’m ever given the chance, I will give this man every ounce of the home, safety, and belonging he’s spent a lifetime building for others.

Someday, I hope to be the person who finally makes James Serrano feel safe.

❤️

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# Chapter 15

James

"Ben," I snap, fingers dragging through my hair, nails biting into my scalp like pain might help. "Just say it."

I can't stop moving. Fingers raking through my hair again. Then again. Like if I keep motion in my body, the panic won't spill out all over the goddamn place.

I pull in a breath that barely reaches my lungs.

Try again.

Still not enough.

"He wants the exchange to happen tomorrow," Ben says. "Truck stop off I-84. Near Greenville."

Tomorrow?

My body reacts before my mind can catch up. I'm on my feet, adrenaline slamming through me hard enough to make my hands shake. The room goes quiet, charged, like everyone's bracing for impact.

"What time?" Zeb asks.

"Nine a.m."

A sharp, broken laugh tears out of me before I can stop it. "Greenville's six hours away. That gives us—what—ten hours to mobilize, plan, get eyes on the location?" I start pacing, too much energy trapped under my skin. "That's not enough time, Ben. Not even close."

"I know," Ben says, too quietly. "But it's the window he gave us."

"No," Zeb cuts in. "There's no way you'd agree to that. What aren't you telling us?"

The silence stretches, heavy and pressurized. Every one of us holding our breath as Ben stares down at the table in front of him, like the answer might be written there.

"If we're not there," he says carefully, "he made it clear Tyler won't survive the day."

The room tilts.

Lucas doesn't soften it. He couldn't, even if he tried.

"They'll kill him," he says flatly. "Leave the body there for authorities to find."

The words slam into my chest.

Something inside me gives way. Not loud. Not explosive. Just a clean, violent collapse, like a structure failing all at once.

Sound drains from the room, replaced by a roar in my ears. My vision narrows until all I can see is the floor beneath my boots as I bend forward, palms braced against my knees, fighting for air that won't come.

Tyler.

My little brother.

The only blood I have left.

"James." Annelly's voice cuts through the noise, soft but urgent. She's at my side before I realize I've stopped breathing. Her hand presses against my back—steady, grounding. "Hey. Look at me. Breathe. Please... just breathe."

Zeb moves in without being asked, a solid presence at my other side. Between the two of them, I'm guided back into the chair. I let it happen because I don't trust my legs not to give out completely.

I sit there, chest heaving, trying to wrap my head around how we got here.

How is this real? 

How the fuck do we survive this?

"And the FBI?" Dominick asks, like we're discussing inventory instead of my brother's life. His tone is precise. Clinical in its detachment. "What's their role in all this?"

Ben doesn't look at me when he answers.

"Agent Hunt will be on site with a small team. Five agents total. Two snipers positioned nearby. Two acting as civilians. The fifth is Agent Maxine Halder." He pauses. "She'll impersonate Annelly during the exchange. She volunteered."

Annelly's breath catches beside me. Soft—but I hear it.

"And Annelly?" Zeb asks. "Who's staying with her?"

"In order for this to work," Ben says, "Victor has to believe this is being handled in-house. OTS staff only. Owen and I will remain in Ruby Creek as Overwatch. We'll relocate to Lucas's compound. With Pastor David's help, we'll secure Emilia, Jen, Aunt Rosie, and the kids there to centralize resources."

Lucas nods once. "Nero and I will head out to Greenville shortly. Recon the site. Make sure we're ready."

"Lucas will be the lead on-site," Ben adds. "He's the only one authorized to speak on behalf of OTS. All communication runs through him. Victor knows this. It's non-negotiable."

"And the rest of us?" Zeb presses.

"Zeb, Dom, James—you travel together. Meet Lucas at the rendezvous point." Ben finally looks at me. "Annelly will stay behind at the safe house. Hunt is coordinating with state and local law enforcement. A detail will be assigned to stay with her until one of us can make it back."

The room tilts again.

"No." I'm on my feet before I register the movement, heat detonating in my chest. "Absolutely not."

Every head snaps toward me.

"I'm not leaving her here with people we don't know," I say, the words coming fast and sharp, barely contained. "Either I stay, or she goes back to Ruby Creek. To Lucas's. That's it. That's the only way I leave her."

Dominick lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Oh, now you want to send her back. Convenient."

I turn on him, rage flashing hot—

"Enough." Ben's voice cuts clean through the room. Not loud. Not angry. But final nonetheless.

He holds my gaze this time, and I see it—the exhaustion etched deep beneath the control. The weight he's been carrying longer than any of us want to admit.

"We don't have the time or manpower to move her safely," he says. "And you have to be present for the exchange. It's the only way Victor buys the decoy."

Something inside me snaps.

"How did this happen?" I bark at him. "How dare you negotiate all of this without me? Like my say doesn't matter. Like I don't have the most to lose here?"

"Which is exactly why he had to do it," Dominick fires back. "You're compromised, James. You're too damn close to see straight."

I surge towards him, anger blazing hot.

But then I see her. 

From the corner of my eye—a flinch. A tightening of her shoulders. The sudden hitch in her breath.

The room rushes back all at once. The low, animal sound in my chest. The collective gasps as everyone braces for me to lose control. And that it's happening in front of her yet again... 

The shame flares to life, burning hotter than the rage. 

I stop. 

Force air into my lungs. Hold it in. Then let it out slowly. 

For her, I have to stop this. 

For her, I have to do better.

I take a step back, dragging a hand through my hair, over my face, grounding myself in the friction. The monster is still there—pacing, snarling—but I lock it down. Contain it. Because she's watching. Because she deserves better than this twisted, broken version of me.

"James," Ben says into the silence, his voice steady, dangerous in its restraint. "Victor called. He dictated the terms. And as the leader of this team, I made the call to negotiate on your behalf."

He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't soften it either.

"I won't apologize for it. I'll take full responsibility for the consequences, no matter the outcome. But hear this: he wants you off balance. He's betting he can push you into a mistake. Into isolating yourself. He wants this team to fracture under the weight of what's at risk. And I refuse to give him that. We cannot give him that."

Lucas nods once, his gaze steady on mine. "And we won't. This team is better than that."

My chest still heaves, pulse racing—but I'm back inside myself now. Back under control.

Annelly's hand finds mine again. Firm. Certain. A quiet reminder that we're still here. Still standing.

"This is it," she says softly. "This is how we get Tyler back."

I look at her.

She's calm—but the fear is there too, threaded through her courage.

Something in my chest caves.

I swallow hard, forcing air back into my lungs, letting the love I feel for her dissolve what's left of the rage simmering beneath my skin. I don't answer right away. I just study her face. Commit it to memory. The strength she's showing. The cost she's willing to pay. All the things that make her so damn perfect for me.

"Okay," I say finally, my voice lower now, meant only for her. "Then we finish it. We get Tyler back. And we end this."

Zeb exhales slowly, like he's forcing himself back into motion. "All right. Then what do we know about the cops Hunt's bringing in? If we're leaving her here, I want full dossiers on all of them. Full vetting. No blind spots."

"On it," Ben says. "Everything Hunt has, Owen will send your way. Anything else?"

Dominick shifts his weight. "Are we sure we can trust the FBI on this?"

"Yes," Lucas says immediately. "Hunt proved that when he put his career on the line to save my family." His jaw tightens. "But there's still risk. Bastille has friends in high places. If the right person connects the right dots, it could all unravel fast. Our only hope is that time's on our side—that Bastille rushing this works to our benefit."

"Unless," Dominick says quietly, "he already knows she's here."

Annelly inhales sharply.

My heart slams hard against my ribs.

"We don't have another option," Ben says. "This is our only shot at getting Tyler back. The only way to keep her safe while we do it."

"You're letting him control the board," I say, my voice rough now, stripped of heat but not the fear underneath. "You've let him back us into a corner."

"There was no other way," Lucas says, trying to reassure—but even he doesn't sound convinced. "All we can do now is play better than him. Beat him at his own game."

Silence settles over the room, heavy and suffocating.

"This is a trap," I say finally. The words feel inevitable the moment they leave my mouth. "Everything about it screams trap. He's not going to be there—but he's making damn sure we all are."

I shake my head, a breath slipping out of me that sounds too close to defeat.

"I can't leave her. Not like this. Not without one of us here to watch her back."

Dominick nods once, a rough exhale following like it costs him something to say it. "I agree with James. One of us should stay behind. It can't be James—so that leaves me or Zeb."

"I agree," Zeb says immediately.

Lucas nods. "Me too."

Ben drags a hand down his face, resignation carved deep into the lines around his eyes. "Fine."

"It should be Dominick," Zeb says after a beat. "He's got the tactical training, the close-quarters combat experience. If something goes sideways, he's our best shot at keeping her safe."

I hate how easily it makes sense.

Hate the way my chest tightens with relief and resentment all at once.

Dominick meets my gaze. No smugness. No challenge. Just a hard, unspoken understanding.

He's got her.

Whether I like it or not, I have no choice but to trust him.

I look at Annelly.

She's watching me closely now, brow furrowed, eyes bright with worry that guts me as she waits for my answer.

Leaving her behind feels wrong on a cellular level. Like every instinct in my body is screaming against it. Like even considering this is breaking some unspoken vow. Like I'm choosing one impossible loss over another—choosing between the two people I love most in this world—all in the name of strategy, in a game that's been rigged for us to lose.

But Ben is right about one thing.

Victor has left me no choice.

I squeeze her hand once, then look at Dominick, nodding. Sharp. Final. "Dominick, it is."

Lucas straightens, his gaze moving over each of us. "Then we're agreed. We all know what's at stake. From this point on, there's no room for hesitation. We move. We execute. And we don't stop until Tyler's home."

The words land—but they don't comfort.

Under the circumstances, nothing could.

I'm walking away from the woman I love to save the brother I can't live without.

And the worst part?

With the way Victor has set this up, there's a very real chance I might lose them both.

❤️

 
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Chapter 16

James

Annelly lies tucked against my chest, both of us pretending sleep is still an option.

The uncertainty of the night clings to us like a second skin. The packed go-bags. The fact that it’s nearly eleven and we’re lying here fully dressed. It all says what neither of us is ready to admit out loud.

We’re past the point where letting our guard down, even for a second, feels possible. Like even entertaining the thought might tempt the universe into taking what it thinks it’s owed.

The room is dim and quiet, the only light coming from the thin sliver beneath the door. Somewhere down the hall there’s the muted clink of gear being shifted. Boots against hardwood. Low voices. The house trying to settle around us, even as the rest of us brace for the hell that’s coming.

We leave just before midnight.

Forty-five minutes from now, Zeb and I will be on the road, starting the six-hour drive to a truck stop off I-84. A location chosen by the madman holding my brother hostage. The same bastard forcing me to leave the woman I love behind while he sends us into the dark on what could very well be a wild goose chase.

Nothing about this feels right.

I map it all out in my head without meaning to—the drive, the rendezvous, the wait. The moment it all goes sideways. Because it will. It always does when it’s something I care about on the line.

I don’t trust this plan.

I don’t trust the timing.

I don’t trust Victor.

And I don’t trust myself to hold it together when everything inevitably goes wrong.

My arms tighten around her on instinct, fingers curling into her hip like even my subconscious is trying to keep her here with me. To hold on to her warmth. The steady sound of her breathing. The quiet weight of her pressed against me in this brief, fragile pocket of certainty.

Because once I walk out of this room, nothing is guaranteed.

Not Tyler.

Not her.

Least of all the man I’ll be when this is over.

What if twenty-four hours from now I’m still alive but living a life I no longer want to exist in? A life without the two people I can’t breathe without.

The thought circles relentlessly, refusing to settle.

Refusing to let me rest.

Beneath my touch, her breathing changes. Just a slight hitch I feel against my chest, against my arms still locked around her in a hold I realize might be too tight.

I force myself to ease up, even as everything in me resists.

Like she senses the shift, she moves closer instead, her forehead brushing my collarbone, her nose tucked against my skin as she breathes me in.

“James?” Her voice is quiet. Hesitant. “Are you okay?”

I open my mouth on instinct, reaching for the lies that usually come so easily.

Of course.

I’m fine.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, I stare at the dark stretch of wall across the room, jaw tightening as I try to force them out. My chest feels too tight. My lungs too shallow. My voice too brittle to trust.

I swallow once.

Then again.

Her fingers curl lightly into the fabric of my shirt, not gripping, not demanding. Just there. A quiet reminder that she’s with me, giving me the space to decide how much of this I’m willing to let her see.

I exhale slowly, the sound rougher than I want it to be.

“No, snowflake,” I admit. “I’m not.”

I press my forehead to the top of her head, eyes closing as the truth settles heavy in my chest.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I say finally. “I don’t even know if I can.”

Her hand slides up my arm, thumb brushing over my wrist where my pulse is still racing. A grounding touch. A reminder that she’s here, that I’m not alone in this moment no matter how much it feels like I am.

“I wish I could promise you everything’s going to be okay,” I continue quietly. “I wish I could tell you this is just another bad night, another mess we’ll survive. That by this time tomorrow, everything will be right.”

My throat tightens.

“But I can’t.” My voice breaks. “Because the truth is… I don’t know.”

I loosen my hold on her hip just long enough to cup her face, pressing a kiss to her forehead and holding it there, breathing her in, committing the feel of her skin to memory.

“I don’t trust what’s happening,” I admit. “The timing. The rush. That bastard is up to something. I can feel it in my bones, in every damn part of me.” My jaw tightens. “And there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t see a way to stop what’s coming.”

I let out a breath that feels too thin, stopping just short of telling her what terrifies me most.

That I can feel him circling.

That every instinct I have is screaming that he’s using my brother to lure me away so he can slip in and take her while I’m not here to protect her.

The words hover there on the tip of my tongue, but I force them back. I won’t put that kind of fear into her head. Not tonight. Not when I’m minutes away from walking out the door and leaving her behind.

“I keep running through it,” I say instead, my voice rough despite my effort to keep it steady. “Every version of what could happen. Every possible outcome. Trying to find the one where we all make it out of this intact.”

I shake my head once.

“And there’s just so much we don’t know. So much that could go wrong.”

Including things I don’t know how to survive.

It’s the closest I can come to the truth without letting it swallow me whole, without dragging her down into the depths of my despair and drowning us both.

I shift just enough to look at her, my thumb brushing over the soft skin of her cheek as I commit this moment to memory, just in case.

“I hate that I can’t fix this for you,” I say quietly. “For us. For Tyler. And I hate that I’m walking out that door without answers, knowing I can’t protect you from the waiting, from the fear, from everything that comes next.”

My chest tightens, breath catching for half a second before I force it back under control.

“I need you to know that if I could stay, if there were any way to do this without leaving you behind, I would. In a heartbeat. I’d choose you every time, Annelly. Every single time.”

The words settle between us, raw and unguarded.

For the first time tonight, I let myself feel the full weight of what this is costing me. All the ways loving her has rewritten everything I thought I knew about love, about loss.

And still… nothing has ever felt more painfully worth it.

Annelly doesn’t speak right away. She stays curled against me, fingers resting lightly on my chest like she’s memorizing the rhythm of my heart. When she finally lifts her head, her eyes shine not just with tears but with a quiet resolve that steals my breath.

“I know you can’t promise me anything,” she says softly. “And I’m not asking you to. But I can’t help but have faith. In you. In us. In Tyler.”

Her hand slides up my chest to cup my face, anchoring herself to me.

“I know tomorrow could change everything,” she whispers, her voice trembling before it steadies. “But what won’t change is how much I love you. How badly I want a life with you.”

Tears sting my eyes, and I can’t help it.

I don’t just lean in. I close the distance like I’m afraid the world might rip her away if I hesitate. My mouth finds hers with all the hunger and heartbreak I’ve been holding back, pouring every unsaid promise, every fear, every piece of my heart and soul into the kiss, praying she feels it.

When I finally pull away, we’re both breathless. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark and shining, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

“I love you, snowflake,” I whisper, my voice wrecked. “With all of my heart. With everything I am.”

“I know.” She gives me a watery smile, then her fingers trace the scruff along my jaw, memorizing me the same way I’m memorizing her. “I have hope, James. Enough for both of us. No matter how this turns out, you’re going to be alright. Because that’s who you are—my fighter. Tyler’s big brother.”

Her forehead rests against mine, warm and steady, a quiet light in the dark place inside me.

“Whatever happens,” she whispers, “remember I’ll love you forever.”

I pull her closer, wrapping myself around her like I can keep the world from touching her if I just hold on hard enough.

For one fragile moment, the world shrinks to this bed. Her breath. Her warmth. The impossible hope she’s pressing into me just by being here.

But the spell is broken just a second later when my phone vibrates on the nightstand.

My stomach drops as I reach for it.

And there on the screen, I find the words I’ve been dreading.

Zeb:

We’re a go. Moving out in 30.

❤️

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# Chapter 17

James

Thirty minutes.

That's all that's left of this suspended world—this bed, this warmth, this quiet pocket of air where I can still pretend I'm not about to walk out of the room and into something that might take everything from me.

Annelly's breath fans against my throat, slow and soft. She hasn't moved, like she, too, is afraid the slightest shift might shatter the fragile bubble holding us together.

I should answer Zeb.

I should get up and finish getting ready.

Instead, I stare at the screen until my eyes burn, my thumb hovering over the words as if pressing them might somehow make them less real.

A frustrated breath slips from me, and I angle the phone away from her—not because she hasn't already seen the message, but because there's no sense in letting it continue to torture us both. My chest tightens at the truth I can't outrun: in half an hour, I'll be in the car with Zeb, driving toward a trap I can already feel coiling around us. And she'll be here. Alone. Vulnerable. Outside the circle of my protection.

Something knots in my throat—a strangled sound I refuse to let fully form. I swallow it down hard. I can't fall apart. Not now. Not with her pressed against me, trusting me to be steady for us both.

I turn my face into her hair, breathing her in—soap, warmth, the familiar comfort that is uniquely her—like I can carry it with me. Like I can keep her in my lungs for the next several hours. Like that might be enough when everything inevitably starts to fall apart.

And then, as if my body is searching for something to hold on to—anything to pull me out of this spiral—my gaze drifts to the dresser across the room.

Top drawer.

Black velvet box
.

My fingers flex against her hip as something steadies beneath the dread. The fear is still there, clawing and relentless, but layered beneath it is something quieter. A resolve. A need. Not for control, but for one final act of love I can leave with her before I'm forced to walk away.

I press my mouth to her temple, a promise sealed without words.

Then I ease out from beneath her, slipping free of the blankets. The cold air hits my skin in sharp contrast to her warmth, and a brief shiver moves through me.

Annelly stirs behind me as I rise, pushing herself up, hair falling loose around her shoulders, confusion flickering across her face.

"James?" she murmurs.

"I'll be right back," I say quietly. "I just need to grab something."

She nods without hesitation, and that simple trust lands heavy in my chest as I cross the room.

At the dresser, I pull open the top drawer, fingers moving through the dark until they find it exactly where I left it—small, unassuming, impossibly weighty for something that fits in my palm. I close my hand around the box, then turn back toward the bed.

She's sitting up now, legs folded beneath her, perched on the edge, watching me with that quiet attentiveness that once unsettled me—and now makes me feel seen.

I stop in front of her and sink onto one knee.

This isn't how I planned it. Not even close. But it feels right to meet her here. Me—and the monster—exposed and grounded, bowing at her feet in reverence. 

Her hand flies to her mouth, panic flashing across her eyes. "James—"

"It's okay, snowflake," I say gently. "It's not what you think. Just... let me explain."

I flip the lid open.

The sapphire catches the low light, a deep, luminous blue. A single teardrop pendant, elegant in its simplicity, set in silver and resting against black velvet.

Her breath leaves her in a soft, broken rush.

"I bought this about a month ago," I tell her quietly. "Not long after you came to stay with Tyler and me. Back when everything still felt fragile. Uncertain. Back when I knew I wanted more with you, but didn't yet know how to become the man you deserved."

I lift the pendant from the box, the cool metal warming quickly between my fingers.

"I was so messed up back then, I honestly didn't know if I'd ever get the chance to give it to you," I admit. "But I had to buy it anyway. Just in case we made it here."

Her eyes never leave mine.

"Emilia helped me," I continue, a faint, self-conscious smile tugging at my mouth. "I went to her because I needed something I couldn't put into words. Something that could show you how much you mean to me. How much your trust in me matters." I shake my head. "After listening to me ramble far longer than I should've, she suggested a sapphire."

I swallow.

"Because it stands for honesty. Trust. For purity of intention," my voice roughens. "Everything you gave me before I'd earned it. When you came back to Ruby Creek, I didn't deserve another chance—and you gave me one anyway."

Tears gather in her eyes, but I don't stop.

"You trusted me with your heart when I was still learning how not to break it. You believed in me when I didn't even know how to believe in myself."

I reach for her, cupping her face, my thumb brushing gently beneath her eye as a tear slips free.

"This—" I lift the pendant slightly. "This is a symbol of that. Of us. Of what we've built piece by piece, not on fear, but on honesty and trust. It's a promise. Of my loyalty. My faithfulness. My commitment to you."

Her tears fall silently now, her head nodding because words won't come.

I move carefully, fingers trembling just enough to remind me how much this matters as I sweep her hair aside. My knuckles graze her skin, and the simple contact steadies me.

This is right.

Giving her this.

Having her wear it.

Nothing has ever felt more certain.

The clasp clicks softly as I fasten the delicate necklace around her throat. 

When I settle back in front of her, I can't look away. The sapphire rests against her chest, deep blue against her skin, breathtaking enough to steal the air from my lungs.

"You changed me," I say quietly, voice breaking. "Loving you made me want to be better—not just for you. For Tyler. For the people I care about. Even for myself."

I shake my head once, humbled by the truth of it.

"You showed me what it looks like to choose something good and keep choosing it, even when it hurts. Even when the fear of losing it makes it hard to breathe."

My thumb brushes the pendant again, slow and reverent.

"This necklace is a reminder of my love for you. Of the life I want with you. A life built on trust, not control. On choosing each other every single day, no matter what comes."

I lift my gaze to hers and let her see all of me—the certainty and the terror, the devotion and the dread.

"This is me leaving my heart with you," I whisper. "Please keep it close. Keep it safe... until I find my way back to you."

She reaches for me, hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me close. Her mouth meets mine, full and unguarded, and I take everything she gives—every emotion, every breath, every unspoken plea.

The kiss isn't hurried. It's deep and aching and slow, as if we're both trying to memorize the other by touch alone. My hand cradles her jaw, my thumb brushing the curve of her cheek, while my other arm anchors at her waist, pulling her closer until there's no space left between us.

Her breath trembles against my lips.

Mine does too.

And I kiss her with everything I don't trust my voice to carry—gratitude, devotion, terror, and a love so consuming it feels almost unbearable. 

When we finally break apart, we're both breathless, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same unsteady air. Her eyes are wet, shining, impossibly soft, and I hate that I'm about to cloud this moment.

My gaze drops to the pendant resting against her chest. My thumb traces its edge once, reverently, before stilling.

"Snowflake," I murmur, my voice rough. I swallow and try again. "There's... something else I need to tell you."

I draw in an unsteady breath, nerves coiling tight in my chest.

"Lucas and Owen helped me with it—just before we came here." A shaky breath slips out. "There's a tracker inside the setting. Tiny. You'd never know it was there unless you were looking for it."

I lift my eyes to hers, searching her face, suddenly afraid of how she might see me now that she knows.

"I don't want to be that guy," I rush on. "The one who watches. Who cages. Who claims instead of protects. That's not who I'm trying to be with you. And I hate that even saying this feels like I'm failing you."

My thumb brushes the sapphire again, softer this time.

"But I'm leaving you. And I don't trust this plan. I don't trust Victor. And I don't trust that I'll be able to get back to you fast enough if something goes wrong."

My voice drops, stripped bare. "So I'm asking—if you can—please don't take it off while I'm gone. Not because I want to control you... but because I need to be able to find you. If I have to."

Silence stretches between us, long enough for my chest to tighten in anticipation of anger. Of disbelief. Of her pulling away.

Instead, her hand comes down over mine, covering it where it rests against the pendant. Warm. Steady. Her eyes are full—not with fear, not with anger, but with understanding.

"James," she whispers, her voice trembling but sure. "I'll wear it proudly. Because I know your heart. Because I trust you."

The thumb of her other hand brushes my cheek, easing tension I didn't even realize I was holding.

"And because I want you to come back to me," she continues softly. "No matter where I am, I want you to be able to find me."

❤️

 
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Chapter 18

Annelly

4:45 a.m.

The red numbers on the old clock radio glow softly in the dark, sharp against the stillness of the room like a warning I don’t know how to heed.

I should be asleep. James left nearly five hours ago. My body is exhausted, heavy with the kind of bone-deep weariness that should have dragged me under hours ago, but my mind refuses to let go. It keeps circling the same terrible thoughts, looping and looping, unwilling to settle.

I shift onto my side and curl my fingers beneath the collar of my shirt, pressing my hand to my chest until I find it.

The sapphire pendant.

I close my eyes and breathe, anchoring myself to it the way I know he would want me to.

James is somewhere out there. On the road with Zeb, driving toward a dangerous unknown. I could tell it had shaken him, even though he tried to hide it as he kissed me goodbye. I could tell he didn’t want to leave me.

But Tyler is still out there. Still missing. Still alone. Possibly hurt.

No. James is exactly where he needs to be. And though being apart like this hurts like nothing else ever could, we both know it’s the way it has to be.

I swallow hard and force my eyes back to the clock.

4:46 a.m.

My chest tightens.

Every minute that passes is another mile put between us, the feeling like a thread being pulled too tight. I picture him gripping the steering wheel, jaw locked, mind already three steps ahead of whatever waits for him. I imagine the fear he didn’t say out loud. The terror he worked so hard to keep from touching me.

I squeeze the pendant harder, the memory of his voice in those final moments pressing against my chest.

“Promise me, Snowflake.

That you’ll stay close to Dominick. That you’ll listen to everything he tells you. Every order he gives. No hesitation. No questions.“

I’d nodded. Unbeknownst to him, I would have agreed to anything he asked if it meant easing his mind. But I meant the words. The simple I promise that came out half sob, half whisper, while my hands fisted in his shirt and my body fought desperately not to let him go.

His grip had tightened then—not possessive, not demanding—but heavy with the terror and helplessness crawling just beneath his skin.

“And Annelly…” His voice had dropped, rough and cracked at the edges. “Promise me you won’t give yourself up to him. No matter what he says. No matter what he threatens. No matter if he has me. Or Tyler. Or anyone who loves you. Because there’s not a single person whose life you’ve touched who would want you to do that. Not one of us would want you sacrificing yourself to a man like Victor.”

That was where his control cracked. Just a fracture, barely visible, but I felt it. The terror beneath his restraint. The monster clawing at the surface as he begged me to survive above all else.

“I promise,” I’d said, my voice steady even as my heart splintered. “I swear I won’t give myself up. Not to him.”

And then I’d made him promise too, because I needed his words just as badly as he needed mine.

“Stay safe,” I’d whispered, pressing my forehead to his. “ Bring Tyler home. And promise me—no matter what happens—you’ll come home. Straight back to me.“

His breath had shuddered against mine. His hands had come up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing along my cheeks like he was memorizing me.

“Always,” he’d said, voice hoarse with emotion.

I roll onto my back now, staring up at the ceiling, the memory tightening my throat.

The goodbye plays back in fragments—sensations more than images.

His forehead against mine.

The warmth of his touch as he tucked the sapphire carefully beneath my shirt, his fingers lingering there like he was afraid to let go.

The breath we shared as he kissed me one last time—slow, intimate, reverent—as if melding our breaths together might keep us tethered across the distance.

Then his voice, quiet and strained as he told me, “Stay in bed. Try to get some rest.”

I’d frowned, already pushing up on my elbows.

“James—I want to see you off.”

“Please,” he’d said softly. “Our last goodbye has to happen here. Because if you walk me to the door—if I have to sit in that car watching you from behind a windshield—I don’t think I’ll be able to leave.”

That had stopped me cold.

So I stayed. I watched him go. I listened to his footsteps fading down the hall, every instinct in my body screaming to chase after him.

A tear slips free now, tracking silently into my hairline.

I swipe at it quickly, like that might erase the ache hollowing out my chest.

I can’t help myself. I look at the clock again.

4:47 a.m.

I draw in a shaky breath and hold it, pressing the pendant closer, like it might hear me—like it might somehow carry how much I miss him back to him and ease the ache that won’t let go.

Come back to me, I think to myself, the words lodging deep and stubborn in my chest. Please.

And then—

A sound.

Soft. Subtle. Almost nothing.

Footsteps in the hall, headed toward my door.

My heart lurches violently, hope flaring so fast it steals my breath.

“James?” I whisper before I can stop myself.

I sit up, pulse roaring in my ears, eyes locked on the door. But even as hope surges, dread follows close behind. It can’t be him. It’s too soon. And if the plan had changed, he would have called to tell me.

My gaze flicks to the clock as my body goes rigid.

4:48 a.m.

Something’s not right.

My spine stiffens as I slide off the bed, bare feet sinking into the small area rug. The room feels suddenly unfamiliar, shadows stretching where they shouldn’t. My gaze darts to the window. The closet. Then back to the door. My mind races through a list of impossible choices.

Do I run?

Do I hide?

Do I fight?

The handle turns slowly.

I draw in a breath and brace myself—

“Shh.”

The door opens just enough for a shape to slip through.

“It’s me,” a low voice murmurs. “Dom.”

Relief and fear collide so hard my knees nearly buckle.

Dominick eases the door shut behind him without a sound, already moving as his eyes sweep the room. He’s dressed in dark clothes I don’t recognize, his expression tight and alert. He crosses to the closet in three long strides and yanks it open.

“Get dressed. Quickly,” he whispers, tone urgent but controlled.

“What—” My voice comes out thin. Brittle.

He ignores the question, grabbing my go-bag and tossing it onto the bed. It lands with a dull thud that sounds far too loud in the silence.

“Do you have shoes in here?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper. “By the dresser.”

“Good.” He doesn’t look at me as he grabs them and sets them on the bed. Then he goes to the window, pressing his body flat to the wall as he peels back the curtain just enough to glance outside, keeping himself hidden. “Put them on. Now.”

My hands shake as I reach for the lightweight boots James bought for me, fingers fumbling with the laces. Every sound feels amplified—the soft scrape of leather as my foot slides in, the faint click of the metal tips on the laces as I pull them tight before tying them.

My heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts to breathe.

“What’s happening?” I ask, my voice barely there.

Dominick finally turns to me. Just for half a second—but it’s enough. The look in his eyes is all sharp focus and buried fear.

“Movement triggered one of the sensor alarms on the north end,” he says quietly. “Then they all went down.”

A cold wave rolls through my body.

“I can’t reach the officers in the other cabin. I’m not taking any chances.”

My stomach drops.

“We’re moving out.”

❤️

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# Chapter 19

Annelly

Dominick crosses the room and shrugs out of his jacket, thrusting it toward me.

"Put this on."

I do it without question. The moment it's on, he grips my elbow and turns me toward the hall. His touch is firm, unapologetic, positioning me exactly where he wants me.

"They're coming from the north end," he murmurs as he steers me toward the bedroom at the far end of the hall. "So we go out this way."

The bedroom door opens without a sound. He flicks on the light of his phone just long enough to orient us, then snaps it off again.

"You go first," he whispers as he slides the window latch open. "When you get out there, get low against the roof. I'll be right behind you. I'll help you down."

My throat closes.

"Dom—"

"No. You get down low. You wait for me. Got it?" His voice sharpens just enough to cut through the panic clawing up my chest.

There's no room left for fear to argue.

I nod. Once. Hard.

The window opens, cold air instantly rushing in.

Before I can think better of it, I'm climbing through, the night air biting into my skin as I drop into a crouch against the roof. The shingles are slick beneath my palms. The edge is too close. The drop beyond it feels endless.

I force myself to breathe, fast and shallow, my heart hammering so hard it hurts.

A second later, Dominick is there. One hand steadies me while his gaze sweeps the darkness beyond us.

"Okay," he whispers. "Stay close."

He doesn't ask if I'm ready.

His hand closes around my elbow, unyielding, and he pulls me forward before my body can catch up to the fear screaming in my head.

"We need to keep moving," he murmurs.

With his help, I drop from the roof into a narrow strip of shadow below. My boots hit the ground harder than I expect, pain flaring sharp and hot up my ankle, but there's no time to register it. Dominick is already dragging me forward, his grip never loosening, his body angled instinctively between me and the open space behind us.

The air is shockingly cold. It burns my lungs as we run, darkness swallowing everything beyond a few feet in front of us. Branches whip at my arms. My face. I stumble once, twice, and each time Dominick catches me without breaking stride, hauling me upright like gravity itself doesn't apply to him.

"Stay low," he murmurs. "Stay on your feet."

I try. God, I try.

But fear floods me now, fast and relentless, clogging my throat, splintering my focus. Breathing hurts. Thinking feels impossible. My heart slams so violently against my ribs it feels like it's trying to tear its way out.

The woods press in from every direction, unfamiliar and hostile. Every sound is amplified—the snap of twigs beneath my boots, the rush of blood in my ears, the harsh rasp of my own breath.

I start to lag.

Dominick senses it immediately.

He swerves without warning, hauling me behind the thick trunk of a pine. His body shields mine on instinct, one hand gripping my jaw, forcing my face up until I'm staring straight at him.

"Eyes on me," he orders quietly.

My vision swims. Panic claws up my spine.

"Breathe," he says. "Now."

I shake my head, a useless, panicked motion. "I—I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he cuts in, calm and absolute. "You must. Watch me."

He inhales, deep and controlled.

Exhales just as slowly.

Then he does it again.

I fight my body, forcing air into my lungs when all I want to do is curl inward and disappear. My chest burns. My hands shake violently.

"Again," he says.

I follow him. One breath. Then another.

The world narrows. The panic doesn't vanish, but it loosens its grip just enough.

"There you go," Dominick murmurs, releasing my face but not stepping back. "You with me."

My knees feel weak, my legs trembling beneath me, but I nod.

"Yes," I whisper. "I'm okay."

It's a lie.

He knows it.

I know it.

But it's enough. There isn't another option.

"Good," he says. "Time to move."

We're running again, deeper into the trees, the ground sloping unevenly beneath our feet. Dominick moves like he knows this terrain, not just where he is, but where he's going. He navigates the dark with quiet precision, ducking branches, skirting open spaces, pulling me along in his wake.

I barely register when he lifts his phone, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

"Owen," he says. "Perimeter's been breached."

A faint hum crackles through the speaker.

His jaw tightens.

"Yeah. Everything's down." A pause. Then, sharp and clipped, "Fuck."

My stomach drops.

He ends the call and turns to me, gripping my arm harder now, not to steady me, but to get my attention.

"If we get separated," he says quietly, "do not draw attention to the necklace."

My hand flies to my chest, fingers curling protectively over the sapphire beneath my shirt.

"Owen's tracking you," Dominick continues. "If they try to take it, let them."

"What?" The word rips out of me, sharp and panicked.

"Let them take it," he repeats, unflinching. "Just make sure they don't know what it is. If they realize we're using it to track you, they'll cover their trail. That'll make it harder to find you."

Find me?

The words sound wrong. Too heavy. Too final.

"Dom," I whisper, my voice shaking. "What's happening?"

His gaze flicks past me, scanning the darkness as his body goes rigid.

"We're surrounded," he says. "They're going to take you. With luck, they'll take us both."

The world tilts. My thoughts scatter, slipping through my fingers no matter how hard I try to hold on.

Before I can respond, before I can even process what he means—

A sound explodes through the trees.

A crack so loud it tears the night apart.

There's a sharp, violent jolt, and suddenly Dominick's body slams into mine.

For half a second, I don't understand what's happening. My hands come up on instinct, grabbing at him, trying to steady his weight as he stumbles forward and crashes into me. We hit the ground hard, his full weight crushing the breath from my lungs in a broken gasp.

It takes a heartbeat for my mind to catch up.

By some miracle, I manage to shove his weight off me. He rolls onto his back, landing beside me.

"Dom—?"

My hands shake as I scramble to his side.

"No," I whisper. "No, no, no..."

Blood.

There's so much blood.

Dark. Slick.

It coats my palms, stains my clothes, soaks into his.

My hands move frantically over him, pressing, searching, desperate to stop it, but I can't tell where it's coming from. I don't understand what's happening.

"Dominick," I choke through a sob. "Please—tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this."

His eyes flutter open.

A groan tears from his chest.

Then I see it. The fear flashing across his face. Raw. Unfiltered. The kind that rips straight through me.

"Run," he gasps.

My head shakes on instinct. "I can't. I won't leave you. I can't."

His hand jerks weakly, fingers digging into my sleeve as if to shove me away. "Goddamn it," he coughs, blood bubbling at his lips. "Run."

I clutch him tighter, panic screaming through my veins. My vision blurs, tears spilling unchecked. The world feels too loud, too close, like it's closing in from every direction.

A twig snaps nearby.

My head jerks up.

A figure steps out of the darkness.

Then another.

And another.

Masked men. Silent. Walking toward us.

I scramble backward, trying to drag Dominick with me, my heels digging into the forest floor, but it's useless.

Arms seize me from behind, iron-hard and unforgiving.

I scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth, smothering the sound before it can fully form.

Something sharp and chemical floods my senses.

I thrash, fighting with everything I have, kicking, clawing, trying to bite, but my strength drains fast. My limbs turn heavy. Unresponsive.

The forest blurs at the edges of my vision.

The last thing I feel is the sapphire pressing hard against my chest, cool and solid, impossibly grounding, as the darkness rushes in.

James's face flashes through my mind as he gave it to me.

I love you, James.

A final tear slips free.

And then—

Nothing.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 20

Owen

The alarm screaming is what wakes me. Definitely not the gentle chime I set for myself—because let’s be honest, a masochist I am not.

I blink once. Twice. Trying to orient myself as the sharp, insistent wail keeps going. The kind of sound that usually has my brain firing on all cylinders because it only ever means one thing.

Something’s gone horribly wrong.

But her warmth is pressed to my chest. A bare shoulder tucked under my chin. Blonde hair spilled between us, soft and familiar in a way I don’t let myself think about too hard.

She’s still asleep.

I grin down at her despite myself, lifting one hand to silence the alarm.

I love her like this—quiet, soft, unguarded. When sleep smooths away all the sharp edges she pretends are who she is. It’s the only time she leans into me without thinking, without holding back.

Sleep makes her honest in a way she’d hate if she ever knew. In a way our friends would probably never believe.

My smile widens as I imagine how furious she’d be if they ever found out about this. About us.

Sneaking around is half the fun, but it’s the look on her face when that day comes that I’m most excited for. That split second when she realizes she’s been caught. When everyone sees what she keeps pretending isn’t real. The fury. The denial. The way she’ll look at me, ream me a new one, curse at me like this is somehow all my fault—when she’s the one who can’t stay away.

Yeah. Just thinking about it sends a hot, reckless thrill straight to my groin.

Fucking shit.

Now I’m hard again.

But then the alarm screams, loud and brutally demanding, killing the fantasy and ripping me out of my moment of shameless bliss.

“Shit,” I mutter, rolling away from her and getting to my feet. I cross the few steps to my desk, where my baby—my supercomputer and her wall of monitors—glows patiently in the corner of my office.

I drop into my chair and let my fingers fly.

“Shit, shit—”

Every screen lights up at once.

Red.

Too much red.

Safehouse feeds drop simultaneously. Cameras. Motion sensors. Perimeter alarms. All of it flatlining like someone took a scalpel to the system and cut exactly where it would hurt the most. No random flicker. No lag. Just gone.

My stomach sinks.

I shove out of my chair long enough to yank on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt, never stopping my work. Going through command screens. Rerouting. Digging. Pulling contingency after contingency.

I’m always ten steps ahead. It’s how my brain works. But whoever did this? They knew exactly what they were doing.

No matter.

I’ll find another way.

I always do.

“Wake up,” I mutter into my headset as I dial, begging for the universe’s compliance like it owes me a favor. “Wake up, wake up—”

The line clicks.

“Ben, it’s me. Got alarms going off everywhere. Systems at the cabin are down—cameras, sensors, all of it. Tapping into infrared now.”

A pause. Rustling on his end.

Then, “Fuck. And Dom? Has he checked in?”

I swallow, eyes flicking to the call log blinking at the corner of my screen.

Yeah. Once.

Fucking shit.

“I missed his call,” I say, keeping it light. Keeping it moving. “I was asleep. Timing lines up with when the alarms started going off.”

It’s not the best excuse, but it’s all I have. Because saying she’s here won’t help anyone. And it’s almost five in the morning. I would’ve been out cold either way, regardless of whether she was here or not. Well. Probably.

“Get him on the line,” Ben snaps.

“Working on it.” I patch Dom’s call through so Ben can hear it ringing, my fingers moving faster as infrared finally loads.

Dominick’s voice bursts through, breathless. “Owen. Perimeter’s been breached.”

“I’ve got you,” I say, my eyes tracking the numerous heat signatures blooming across the screen. Too many. Their positions organized, too methodical to be anything other than a coordinated attack. “You on the move?”

“Yeah. Everything’s down.”

“You’re going the right way. Keep heading south. Two miles. There’s a ride waiting.”

Ben inhales sharply, and I know without looking that he’s seeing exactly what I’m seeing.

Six bodies fan out around Dom and Annelly on my screen. Their movements coordinated. Disciplined. All wearing masks and tactical gear. No wasted motion. Nothing that gives them away.

Fucking shit.

These aren’t amateurs.

These men are professionals.

“Dom,” I say, keeping my voice steady and casual. No sense in panicking now that everything’s already gone to shit. “You’ve got six hostiles closing fast. All sides. No room to run.”

There’s a pause on the line.

Then Ben cuts in, his voice hard.

“Prep her, Dominick. Now. And brace. Whatever happens next, there’s no way we can stop it.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t say anything.

I don’t need to.

The math is the math.

“Fuck,” Dominick breathes.

Then his voice shifts. Still hard, but gentler now. Steadier. He’s talking to her. I can’t make out the words, just the cadence. The way he slows it down. The way he anchors her with that fearless calm of his.

Her voice breaks through once. Sharp. Terrified.

It punches straight through my chest.

I should’ve caught this. Should’ve seen the pattern forming. Should’ve—

The thought never finishes.

A gunshot cracks through the speakers.

A scream.

Her scream.

Then chaos. Scraping sounds. Shouting. The line is still open as the world on the other end shatters.

I mute myself on Dom’s feed.

My throat burns, but I force my focus back to the screens. To facts. To data.

To fixing this.

“Dom’s down,” I say quietly to Ben. “They’ve got her. Moving her away from him. From the cabin.”

“I see it,” Ben says, voice clipped tight.

Through my screens, I watch them lift her. Her body slack between them. She’s not fighting. She’s not moving.

“She’s unconscious,” I say, hating how clinical it sounds. Hating that all I can do is watch.

“Jesus…” On the lower corner of one screen, I watch Ben scrub a hand over his face before straightening. He brings a burner phone to his ear. “Chief White. Ben Chelsey. We have a situation at the cabin. Our man is down. Gunshot. Possibly your men as well. They’ve taken the girl. I need ambulances and every unit you can spare out there. Now.”

I lean back for half a second, hands laced behind my head, just long enough to keep myself from breaking something.

The satellite feed finally snaps into focus.

“Two SUVs,” I say, pulling the image up and enlarging it. “Hidden under the tree canopy. Placed so we’d miss them.”

Ben nods once. “Send everything you’ve got. To the authorities. To Hunt. To me. What else?”

“They’re disciplined,” I say. “Military, most likely. This wasn’t a smash-and-grab. They planned this. Knew exactly what they were doing, start to finish. Down to the second.”

The silence stretches.

Then Ben exhales. “James.”

There it is.

My eyes flick to the clock. They’re still an hour out from the rendezvous point where they’ll meet up with Lucas and Agent Maxine Halder. Too far to help Dom or Annelly—but close enough to risk even more if they lose focus now.

“We can’t tell him,” Ben says, and I hear it—the hesitation he won’t admit to. “Not yet. He’d fucking lose it.”

“Ben—” I start.

“I said not yet,” he cuts in, harder this time. “One mission at a time. I won’t risk losing anyone else.”

He doesn’t say Dominick’s name. He doesn’t have to. The unspoken hangs between us, thick and suffocating. Not knowing his status—whether he’s still with us or not—feels like a vice tightening around my chest. I can only imagine how much worse it feels for Ben.

“I’ll loop in Agent Hunt. Coordinate with state and local PD,” Ben continues. “You track her. And those bastards. Every step of the way. We take this slow and smart. We see it through to the end.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me.

Fucking shit.

This is bad.

James is going to absolutely go nuclear when he finds out—and I’ll be standing right in the path of that hellfire when it rains down.

But that’s a problem for later.

Right now?

Containment comes first.

I’ll focus on tracking his girl. On finding out where they’re taking her, so the team can go in and save her. Bring her home.

Yeah.

The reckoning that’s coming will have to wait.

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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# Chapter 21

James

	It's just past six when we pull into the crowded coffee shop serving as our rendezvous point. Lucas's truck is already there, white exhaust streaming from the tailpipe as it idles, waiting.

We pull in beside him, then Zeb and I climb out, the brisk morning air sharp enough to bite at our skin. The place is buzzing—people coming and going. Shift workers. Delivery drivers. Commuters. Everyone wrapped up in their own little world, moving through their early-morning routines like it's just another day.

Life carrying on.

Even as mine is on the verge of imploding.

It all feels wrong.

"What's up, man? Everything good?" Zeb asks as he shakes Luc's hand.

"Yep. Team's in place and ready to go."

Lucas nods toward his truck, and that's when I see her.

Agent Maxine Halder stands near the passenger door, posture relaxed, presence anything but. The striking red hair I remember is gone, replaced with a brunette wig cut and styled to match Annelly's hair perfectly.

"You remember Agent Halder?" Lucas asks.

Zeb steps forward and shakes her hand.

I stay where I am, quietly assessing.

From a distance, the disguise works. But up close, the differences are stark.

My Annelly is like a sunrise—beautiful and bright in that quiet, unassuming way that takes your breath away. 

Agent Halder is attractive in a sharper, more deliberate way, one that lacks the warmth Annelly carries without even trying. 

No.

This woman wears her confidence like armor. A hard edge Annelly could never pull off, not even months ago when she was rightfully furious with me.

Thankfully, the odds of Victor being at the exchange are slim to none. Which should make pulling off this ruse that much easier. And right now, that's all that matters.

A few minutes later, we're piled into Lucas's truck. Zeb takes shotgun while I slide into the backseat beside the agent, keeping a careful distance between us. Not out of politeness. Out of instinct.

She's FBI.

On that basis alone, I don't trust her.

The past year has taught me better—taught all of us better. What happened to Creed. To Lucas and Emilia, when she and her girls were taken by mercenaries hired by one of their own. Mercenaries who fired an RPG straight at our vehicle, nearly killing me. Nearly killing my brother. All to kidnap a helpless, innocent woman and her children.

You don't forget something like that.

Ever.

Just ask Lucas, who nearly lost everything that day.

I'll be damned if that becomes our story. Mine. Tyler's. Or Annelly's.

They can try to prove themselves. Try all they want to earn back the trust that never should've been broken in the first place.

It won't make a damn difference.

I won't make that mistake again.

As we pull onto the road toward the truck stop, my thoughts refuse to settle. Truth is, they haven't since before I left her behind. There's a feeling crawling under my skin—tight, restless—the kind I've learned not to ignore.

Something's off.

No. Not something.

Everything about this op feels wrong.

"Ben ordered radio silence," I say, unable to let it go. "Insisted we keep lines open to the cabin and our burners. Any chance you can check in with him or Owen? Just to confirm everything's good out there?"

Lucas glances at me in the rearview. "If something was wrong, he'd have texted. But I'll check in once we arrive, if it helps."

It doesn't. Not even close. But I nod anyway.

Nearly ninety minutes later, we pull into the location Victor specified. My stomach knots immediately, the urge to call Dom—to hear Annelly's voice before this whole thing goes to hell—pressing in on my chest until it's damn near suffocating.

If everything goes according to plan, in a few hours I'll have my brother back. But nothing in my life is ever that simple. More likely, these are my last remaining hours of anything resembling sanity, and God, I wish I could spend them with her.

"Max, James, you two stay put," Lucas says. "Zeb and I will step out. We'll be right next to the truck, checking in with Ben and trying to make contact with Victor."

"When you speak to Ben," I add, aiming for casual and missing it by a mile, "see if there's a way I can talk to her."

"You know the protocol," Lucas says gently. "Communication blackout until the mission's over."

The look he exchanges with Zeb isn't pity exactly, but it's close enough. I turn away before either of them can see how much the reminder guts me.

I hate this.

Hate that I can't hear her voice. That I can't check in. That I can't quiet the dread clawing at my insides.

But I understand it.

Compartmentalize. Execute. Complete the mission.

And the faster we get this done, the sooner I get my brother back—and the sooner I can get back to her.

When the guys step out, leaving us alone, the space inside the truck seems to shrink. I shift in my seat, suddenly too aware of how boxed in I am, cornered beside a woman who might as well be a stranger, while everything that actually matters to me sits just out of reach.

"So," I say, breaking the silence. "What now?"

Agent Halder turns toward me. "Lucas will make contact. Let Victor know we're here. From there, he'll tell us what comes next." She pauses, then adds lightly, "In the meantime, I suggest you take a few deep breaths, get comfortable, and focus on schooling that pretty face of yours. You look like you're about two seconds from losing it."

Because I am.

And sitting this close to a reminder of the woman I love—and left behind—isn't helping.

We sit in silence for several minutes, my attention split between my racing thoughts and the guys standing outside. The low murmur of Lucas's voice confirms he's on the phone, most likely with Ben.

"Okay. Got it. Will do," Lucas says.

He comes around to my side of the truck and taps on the window. I lower it a few inches.

"What did he say?"

"Owen's keeping close tabs on everything," Lucas replies. "Ben said he'll connect with you directly once this is over."

Connect with me directly? 

For what?

"What isn't he saying, Lucas?" I ask quietly, the sudden rush of panic thickening in my throat. "Is Annelly okay?"

"That's all he said," Lucas replies, his voice calm. "He sounded fine, James. I'm assuming everything's good. For now, so should you."

When I stare him down like he should know me better than that by now, he sighs. 

"I swear. I wouldn't lie to you. Not about that. Not when I know what it's like to worry about the woman you love."

I hold his gaze for a beat, then nod.

"Fine. What about Bastille? Does he know we're here?"

"He does. He wasn't thrilled we showed up early, but fuck it. Says he'll be in touch in a few." Lucas steps back from the truck. "For now, we wait."

As I roll the window back up, I hear Agent Halder chuckle softly beside me.

I glance over despite myself.

"I'm sure she's just fine, James," she says, her smile bright. Easy. Confident. Nothing like Annelly's shy warmth—and the contrast makes my chest ache harder.

"Yeah," I say flatly. "We'll see. Considering there's a psychopath after her. The same sick fuck who already kidnapped my brother. At this point, I'd say 
fine
 is relative."

"Well," she replies, unbothered, "given I'm pretending to be her, why don't you tell me a little about her?"

I turn back toward the windshield.

I know exactly what she's doing—trying to distract me, pull me out of my head. And maybe, under different circumstances, it would work. But not now. Not when everything in me is stretched impossibly thin.

I have zero interest in talking.

Zero interest in sharing anything about Annelly with an FBI agent whose smile feels practiced and whose curiosity feels strategic.

The nervous energy coiling inside me tightens with every second we sit here waiting.

"Look," Maxine says, her tone softening just enough to sound sincere. "I can tell you're on edge. I know there's a lot on the line. I'm just trying to help."

"Yeah," I mutter. "I doubt talking about her is going to help anything."

She studies me for a beat. Then—

"Fair enough. In that case, why don't I tell you what I know about your brother?"

My head snaps toward her before I can stop it.

"What the fuck do you think you know about my brother?" I growl.

❤️

 
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Chapter 22

James

“That your brother arrived in town yesterday morning around seven,” Agent Halder says. “Black Yukon. Escorted by three men. We believe they’re lying low somewhere in the vicinity of Industrial Parkway. We’ve been working to narrow down the location in case the exchange goes sideways.”

My jaw tightens.

Not that she notices. She keeps going, calm and measured, like this is just another briefing.

“The leader of the group is former Special Forces. Dishonorably discharged after attempting to sell U.S. intelligence to undercover agents posing as a foreign government. He blames America for everything that’s gone wrong in his life, so now he sells his military skills to the highest bidder.” A faint shrug. “His clients tend to be rich, powerful, and among the worst humanity has to offer. There’s not much he won’t do, as long as the money’s right.”

They know all of this?

How the hell do they know all of this?

And why am I only hearing about it now?

Pressure builds behind my ribs, squeezing hard until each breath feels shallow and incomplete.

“Do we have visual confirmation that my brother is alive?” I ask. My voice stays steady, even as my pulse hammers in my throat.

“Yes. As of yesterday morning. We don’t have a confirmed visual yet today.”

Yesterday morning.

Christ.

That has to be a good sign. It has to be.

“And Bastille?” I ask. “What do you have on him?”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Nothing you don’t already know. He’s a sick fuck. Married three times. All petite brunettes who look an awful lot like your girl. Two professional ballet dancers. One model. Every one of them vanished from public life shortly after meeting him.” Her eyes flick back to me. “All three died under mysterious circumstances within a year or two of marrying him.”

My stomach turns, a sour, rolling drop that settles deep.

“He’s well connected,” she continues. “Friends in very high places. Links to organized crime—drugs, weapons, human trafficking. You name it.” She exhales lightly. “All of it hidden behind legitimate business fronts, including his exclusive, members-only gentlemen’s clubs. You don’t have to dig deep to smell the rot, but nothing ever sticks. Those friends of his tend to step in when he calls. By all accounts, Victor Bastille is untouchable.”

She delivers it all in one smooth breath. Practiced. Controlled. Almost proud.

FBI through and through.

“What’s the FBI doing about it? If he’s been on your radar, what are you doing to shut him down?”

“Officially?” She tilts her head. “Nothing. Unofficially—”

Before she can finish, Lucas opens my door and signals for me to get out. At the same time, his phone rings.

“Victor,” Lucas says, lifting it to his ear. His eyes snap up, sweeping the parking lot until they lock onto an older gray Honda Civic parked alone at the far edge of the property. “Got it.”

He’s moving before the call ends.

He rounds to the back of his truck, rips up the floor mat, and yanks out a tire iron. Zeb and I fall in beside him, instinct carrying us forward while my mind lags a half beat behind.

“He’s in the Civic,” Lucas says, breathless. “In the trunk.”

The words hit, but don’t quite land. How could they, when they don’t make any sense?

Beside me, Zeb is already on the phone, barking orders. I catch only fragments through the roar in my ears.

Ambulance.

Truck stop.

Now.

And then I realize I’m moving too. Legs carrying me forward. Body following Lucas while my brain scrambles to catch up, to make sense of what’s unfolding.

Lucas smashes the driver’s side window.

Glass explodes.

He reaches in. Pops the trunk.

And then—

Everything stops.

Time.

Sound.

Air.

My body locks up, breath trapped hard in my chest as the trunk lid creaks open.

This is it.

The moment I’ve been bracing for since Ben confirmed the exchange was set.

The moment that either gives me my brother back—or takes something from me I’ll never get back.

The moment that could break me beyond repair.

Lucas doesn’t hesitate. He steps around me and hauls the trunk the rest of the way open.

Inside is a body.

Bloody. Broken. Barely recognizable.

But there’s no question.

It’s my brother.

The sound that rips out of me isn’t a scream. It’s worse. Raw. Animalistic. My knees slam into the asphalt as the world caves in around me, pain flashing sharp and meaningless against the devastation tearing through my chest.

“James—hey.” Zeb drops beside me, a hand firm between my shoulders. “He’s alive. Ambulance is on the way.”

I hear him.

The words just don’t reach me.

All I can see is Tyler. All I can think is that I failed him.

I bow forward, forehead pressed to the ground, hands shaking violently as something inside me finally gives way.

Please. God, please.

Look past everything I’ve done wrong. Every mistake. Every failure.

Just don’t take him. Please—don’t take him.

The ambulance arrives in a blur—sirens, red lights, shouted voices. Hands and feet everywhere, moving fast, moving past me, their presence only solidifying the wreckage of a nightmare I wish I could wake up from.

They lift him out.

Up close, it’s worse.

Both eyes swollen shut. Blood, dried and fresh, layered over bruises and cuts so deep they’ve swallowed his features whole. But I know him anyway. I would know him anywhere.

It’s my baby brother.

A sob tears loose before I can stop it. Fear claws through me, sharp and relentless, the certainty that even if he lives, nothing will ever be the same.

I don’t remember standing.

I don’t remember moving.

One second I’m on the ground, the next I’m over him, clutching him, pressing my body to his like through osmosis I can somehow give him back what’s been taken.

I’m in the way. I know I am.

I don’t care.

“James.” Lucas’s arms wrap around me, firm and unyielding. “Come on. You have to let them work.”

It takes everything I have to let go.

He pulls me back while the EMTs swarm in—wires, monitors, shouted vitals, needles. I stand there shaking, staring at the one person I was supposed to protect.

Not just the man he became. The boy.

The kid who followed me everywhere. Who climbed into my bed just to be close. The one I fed and clothed and kept out of the worst of it when our mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t. The one I swore I’d always keep safe.

“Do you want to ride with him?” Lucas asks quietly. “We can follow.”

I nod. The movement feels automatic. Empty.

Because all I can see is Tyler.

And all I can think is—

I did this. I never should have left him.

❤️

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# Chapter 23

Annelly

	Pain presses in behind my eyes, tightening slowly, relentlessly, like someone is winding a vise around my skull. I hear a sound—soft, broken—and it takes a moment before I realize it's coming from me.

I try to open my eyes.

I can't.

My lids feel gritty, swollen, too heavy to lift. My face aches, my brow pulled tight without my permission, and nothing feels right—not my body, not the air around me, not the strange lag between my thoughts and my ability to move. My arms lie useless at my sides, heavy and numb, and when I try to bring a hand to my head it barely twitches, like I'm moving underwater, trapped beneath a weight I can't push through.

The pressure spikes, sharp and blinding, and I give up.

For a moment, I let myself sink back into oblivion. Back into the soft darkness where nothing hurts, where fear can't reach me, where the world goes quiet again.

But it doesn't last.

Cold creeps back in.

Then sound.

Laughter—too loud and yet too faraway—echoes strangely through the space around me. Voices I don't recognize, relaxed and unhurried, drift past me as if I'm not even here, as if I'm nothing more than an afterthought. The casualness of it sends a chill skating along my skin.

A dream,
 I think hazily.

It has to be.

But then something rough brushes against my cheek. The sensation snaps through me like a live wire, unwanted and terrifying. Awareness slams back into place just as the memories come rushing back. 

Dominick and I running. Branches tearing at my skin. The dark forest closing in.

And then Dominick's eyes as he went down.

Blood. So much blood.

Men coming out of nowhere. Hands catching me from behind, clamping over my face, squeezing until my vision blurred. Something chemical burning into my lungs, stealing the air from my chest, dragging me under. 

My breath catches painfully as I force my eyes to focus, vision sharpening just enough to make him real.

Blond curls. Brown eyes. A face so open and charming it feels like a lie all on its own.

Victor.

Everything about him is alluring and wrong in the most insidious way. The ease of his stance. The confidence in his gaze. The way he looks at me like he's already won—and like I'm his entire world all in the same breath. Like this moment is his by right. Like I am too, whether I want to be or not.

Terror floods me, sudden and violent, my body reacting before my mind can catch up—arms straining, legs kicking, breath tearing in and out of my lungs as instinct screams at me to run. To get away. To fight him back if I have to. 

And that's when I realize.

I'm on a bed. 

My wrists are bound to the posts. My ankles, too. Rope bites into my skin every time I move, and panic detonates in my chest as I fight harder, my body revolting against the restraints, against him, against the reality crashing down around me.

I can't get free. I can't move. I can't fight back.

It feels like drowning. Like being buried alive beneath the weight of my own fear, breath trapped, chest tight, vision blurring as I gasp and choke on air I can't seem to pull in fast enough.

Then he laughs. 

The sound is harsh. Satisfied. It cuts straight through the rush of adrenaline screaming in my veins, and I'm almost grateful it does.

I still.

Not because the fear is gone, but because I recognize his amusement for what it is. This is what he wants. For me to be afraid. For me to beg. To plead. To show him I understand I'm
 
at his mercy.

I refuse to give him that.

"Now, now," he says mildly, almost indulgent as he takes in my scowl. "No need for all that unless you want me to lose my patience."

My gaze drops despite myself. Going straight to where his hand rests casually against the noticeable bulge in his pants. The gesture is deliberate. Possessive. A silent promise of what he intends to do to me. 

Another wave of panic rolls through me. 

Bile burns up my throat.

"Boss—" a voice cuts in from somewhere beyond me, just out of focus.

"One second," he says to the man without looking away from me, his attention never leaving my face. "Tell me," he continues softly, in that sweet, reverent tone that once tricked me into trusting him, as he continues to stroke himself over his pants lewdly. "You still a virgin, my little dove? Did you wait for me like I asked you to?"

Cold spreads through my veins, sinking deep into my bones until my entire body trembles. The fear roaring through me is so loud and merciless that my head moves before I can stop it—small, helpless nods that fill me with shame even as my eyes burn hot and defiant.

His smile widens, slow and satisfied.

"Good," he murmurs. "That's very good."

He straightens, adjusting his suit like this is nothing more than another moment in his day, like my terror is a minor inconvenience at best.

"I have business to take care of, my little dove," he says calmly. "But don't worry. I'll be back before you know it."

He leans in, close enough that I can't escape him, his touch lingering where it doesn't belong before his mouth comes down hard against mine. Pain flares as his teeth catch my lip—sharp, punishing—and a cry tears out of me before I can stop it.

He pulls away with a quiet, amused laugh.

The sound follows him to the door and lingers long after it closes behind him.

I taste blood. My blood. 

My lip throbs, split open, the imprint of his teeth still there, making my stomach churn.

Hot tears spill down my temples to the pillow beneath me as reality settles in.

He found me. He took me. And he shot Dominick to do it.

God, Dominick... I'm so sorry. 

And Tyler—

The thought fractures before it can finish forming, grief crashing in on itself until my chest heaves and a sob tears loose, then another. Guilt and fear tangle together, impossible to separate.

Dominick might be gone. Tyler might be too.

And it's all because of me. Because of my mistakes. 

And James—

God, James.

The ache in my chest sharpens, nearly unbearable as his face fills my mind. He left believing I was safe. He trusted Dominick. Trusted the plan. Trusted that I would be okay.

And now I'm here.

Bound. Taken. At the mercy of a monster.

My hand twitches uselessly against the rope, muscle memory reaching for 
it
 without thought—for the invisible thread that links me to him. Unable to move my hands, I lift my aching head, my body screaming in protest as my eyes search desperately.

There. 

It's there.

The blue sapphire rests against my chest, cool and solid, right over my heart.

Relief crashes through me so suddenly it steals my breath.

I cling to the blue stone—not with my hands, but with everything inside me.

I'm here, James. Waiting for you. 

Find me. 

Please—come find me.

The fear doesn't disappear. The panic doesn't vanish. But something inside me steadies and settles into place.

I draw in a deep breath. Slow. Certain.

Because whatever comes next, I understand one thing with absolute clarity. 

My job right now is to survive. To endure. To wait for the man I love to find me.

Victor may have my body for now.

But he will never,
 ever
 have me.

❤️

 
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Chapter 24

James

The doors burst open, and everything happens at once.

The gurney’s wheels clatter against tile as Tyler is rushed inside—voices colliding, hands everywhere, bodies moving too fast for my brain to keep up with. Blood—too much of it—soaks through the sheets beneath him, streaking the metal rails, dripping onto the floor like it’s been poured out instead of lost.

“Male, early twenties. Multiple blunt force injuries—”

“Stab wounds—”

“BP dropping—”

“Possible head trauma—pupils unequal—”

“No response to pain—”

The words hit me out of order, shards instead of sentences. I stumble alongside the gurney, my hand gripping the rail like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

Tyler doesn’t move.

His face is swollen, distorted, barely recognizable beneath bruises and dried blood. One eye is swollen shut. The other—glassy. Wrong. Fixed in a way that makes something inside my chest seize and scream.

“Tyler,” I choke, my voice swallowed by the chaos. “Hey, kid. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Nothing.

A nurse steps in front of me, firm but not unkind, pushing me back as they maneuver the gurney through double doors.

“Sir, you can’t—”

“I’m his brother,” I snap, panic bleeding into anger because if I don’t hold onto something, I’m going to come apart. “That’s my fucking brother.”

She hesitates, then nods sharply. “Okay. Just stay back. Let the doctors work.”

I watch as they strip away his clothes, scissors slicing through fabric like it’s nothing. His body is a map of violence—bruises in every shade of purple and black, cuts I don’t recognize, burns that twist my stomach. My hands curl into fists as bile burns at the back of my throat.

They did this to him.

Victor did this to him.

“Need a head CT. Now,” someone orders. “And get Neuro on the line. Intracranial pressure’s critical.”

Head trauma.

The words finally land.

Too hard. Too fast. Leaving me breathless.

“Sir.” An older nurse with kind eyes tries to catch my attention. “We need to get him upstairs.”

“No…” My voice breaks as bodies move frantically around my brother—hooking him to machines, unhooking him from others. “You can’t. Please don’t take him—”

“They have to.” Lucas steps in beside me, a firm hand closing around my shoulder. “He’s in excellent hands, right?” he asks the nurse.

She nods. “The best hands.” Her smile, meant to reassure, barely registers.

My vision blurs as they push him away from me, through another set of doors, deeper into a maze of hallways I don’t recognize—somewhere I can’t follow.

The doors swing shut between us.

And just like that, my brother is gone again.

A sob claws its way up my throat, but I force it back, scrubbing my hands over my face. Grounding myself. Holding it together.

Because if I fall apart now, I won’t survive what comes next.

And I have to.

For him. For Annelly.

They don’t give me time to stand there and stare at the doors.

Hands guide me—no, move me—away. Gentle at first, then firmer when my feet don’t cooperate. Lucas and Zeb flank me without a word, one on either side like they’re afraid I’ll bolt or collapse or both.

“Sir, this way,” a nurse says, already turning, already assuming I’ll follow.

I don’t want to.

If I leave this damn hallway, it’ll feel like I’m admitting something I’m not ready to face. But they give me no choice.

The walk is a blur of white walls and polished floors, the hospital humming around us like nothing catastrophic is happening. People pass us—laughing softly, talking on phones, sipping coffee—and the normalcy of it feels obscene.

We’re ushered into a small, private waiting area. A couch. A couple of chairs. A table with outdated magazines no one ever reads.

The door closes.

Silence crashes down hard.

I stand there, staring at nothing, my chest tight, my pulse loud in my ears. My hands shake. I curl them into fists, then uncurl them, then press them flat against my thighs like I can force my body to behave.

This is wrong.

So damn wrong.

I shouldn’t be in here. Tyler shouldn’t be alone in there without me. He shouldn’t be unconscious. He shouldn’t be—

My knees buckle without warning.

Lucas catches me before I hit the floor, hauling me down onto the couch like I weigh nothing. I fold forward, elbows braced on my thighs, head hanging as I drag in breath after breath that doesn’t feel like enough.

I can still see him.

That glassy eye. The blood. The way his body didn’t move.

A sound tears out of my chest before I can stop it—raw, broken—and I clamp my teeth down hard, swallowing it back.

Not yet.

I can’t fall apart yet.

Not while he’s somewhere in this hospital still fighting for his life.

Time stops meaning anything. Minutes drag, then blur. The clock on the wall ticks too loudly, each second scraping against my nerves like sandpaper.

My legs bounce uncontrollably. I clamp my hands over my knees, forcing them still, but the energy has nowhere to go. It just coils tighter inside my chest—sharp and restless and mean.

Lucas says something quietly to Zeb across the room. I don’t catch it.

I don’t want to.

Because if I focus on anything other than Tyler, I’m afraid the dam will finally give way.

My eyes drift shut without my permission.

And suddenly I’m not here anymore.

I’m seven years old again, standing on a cracked linoleum floor in a kitchen that smells like stale beer and cigarettes. Three year old Tyler’s sitting at the table, feet swinging, cheeks smudged with dirt as he cries—not loud, just those quiet, hiccupping sobs my mother had no trouble ignoring, yet always tore out my heart.

I remember dropping to his side, wiping his face with the sleeve of my hoodie.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I told him. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.”

I always did.

I skipped meals so he could eat. Took the beatings so he didn’t have to. Walked him to school, then home again, every single day, so no one would ask questions. I learned how to cook and clean because no one else would. Learned how to lie, too—how to smile at teachers, neighbors, strangers. Anyone who came too close to seeing the truth. Anyone who might decide we’d be better off taken from my mom. A risk I was never willing to take, out of fear they’d separate us.

I open my eyes with a sharp inhale, my gaze dropping to my hands, which haven’t stopped shaking.

Tyler’s not that little boy anymore. He’s grown. Strong. Capable.

And still, I failed him.

My eyes lift to the door.

Still no update. No footsteps. No voices.

Just silence.

More waiting.

And the unbearable knowledge that whatever happens in the next few hours could change everything forever.

That’s when I notice something else is wrong.

The room hasn’t moved—but the air has shifted. It feels heavier, somehow. Thicker. Like something bad is pressing in from all sides.

Lucas hasn’t sat down. He’s standing near the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes fixed on the floor like he’s afraid to look at me.

Zeb paces in short, controlled loops, eyes glued to the phone in his hand even though it hasn’t rung. Not once.

They’re waiting.

Not on the doctors.

On something else.

My pulse starts to pound harder, a slow, ugly thud echoing in my ears.

“What?” I rasp, lifting my head. “What’s going on?”

Neither of them answers.

Neither of them looks at me.

That’s when the fear really sets in.

“I need a phone,” I say, pushing myself upright. The words come out sharper than I intend. “I need to call Annelly.”

Lucas flinches.

It’s subtle. Barely there. But I see it.

“What?” I’m on my feet now, legs unsteady but locked. “What aren’t you saying?”

“Now’s not a good time,” Zeb says carefully. “It’s been a long night. Let’s focus on Tyler. Ben will call later with an update on Dom and Annelly.”

“No.” My chest tightens. “By now, she’s awake. Probably worried sick. Waiting for me to call with an update on Tyler.”

The silence that follows is devastating.

It snaps something inside me.

“I said I need a phone,” I demand, my voice rising, cracking under the strain. “Now.”

Lucas finally looks at me, and whatever he sees on my face makes his jaw clench.

“James,” he says quietly. “Sit down.”

Every instinct in my body screams no.

“What happened?” I demand. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Lucas takes a step closer.

Zeb stops pacing.

And in that suspended moment—before a single word is said—I already know.

Something has gone terribly, irrevocably wrong.

“James,” Lucas says again, softer now, like he’s trying not to spook a wounded animal. “Before I tell you anything, I need you to breathe. And remember—we’re in a hospital.”

“I am breathing,” I snap, even though it feels like I’m suffocating. “Stop stalling. Just fucking say it.”

Zeb shifts closer, close enough that I can feel him at my back. Like he’s bracing for impact.

Lucas drags a hand down his face. When he finally meets my eyes, there’s no avoiding it anymore.

“Annelly’s gone.”

The words don’t make sense.

I wait for them to rearrange themselves into something that does.

“What do you mean, gone?” I ask. My voice sounds distant. Wrong. Like it’s coming from someone else.

“She was taken,” Lucas says. “A group of men. Mercenaries. They shot Dominick. Took Annelly. Owen and Ben are on it. Agent Hunt’s looped in. They’re tracking her. They—”

“Taken?” The word finally lands, shattering something inside me. “That’s not possible. She was protected. Dominick was with her. The police were there. How the fuck could this happen?”

Zeb’s hand comes up, firm on my shoulder.

“James—”

“Where is she?” I demand. “Where the fuck is she?”

“I don’t know,” Lucas admits. “Ben didn’t say. But what he did say is that they’ve got her. The tracker is working. They’re moving heaven and earth to get her back. You know they won’t abandon her. They won’t stop until she’s safe.” He gestures down the hall, toward the doors that swallowed my brother. “They’re taking care of her. So you can focus on taking care of him.”

The words mean nothing.

The room tilts.

A high-pitched whine fills my ears, drowning out everything else as images crash into me all at once—Annelly alone, scared, calling for me. The promise I made. The lie I told myself that she’d be safe without me while I went to save my brother.

It was a setup.

Victor’s doing.

Tyler beaten to shit, bleeding out on a gurney, barely alive.

Annelly disappearing into the dark.

All of it—engineered to take everything I love away from me.

I stagger back a step.

“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no…”

This can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking happening.

I can’t lose them both.

I can’t….

I don’t remember moving, only the sudden, brutal impact of my knees hitting the floor. The sound echoes—too loud, too final—and then I’m gone, folded in on myself like something broken beyond repair.

A sound tears out of me.

I don’t recognize it at first. It isn’t a word. It isn’t even a scream.

It’s grief given a voice.

I clutch at my chest like I can physically rip the pain out, like maybe if I tear hard enough it’ll stop. My vision blurs as everything crashes together—Tyler on that gurney. Annelly’s face in my mind. Trusting me. Waiting for me.

I promised her.

I promised him.

“I can’t—” The words fracture, splintering apart as another broken sound rips through me. “I can’t do this.”

Hands grab my shoulders. Lucas. Zeb. Strong. Steady. Holding me upright even as my body gives out completely.

“I left her,” I choke out. “I fucking left her.”

“You didn’t abandon her,” Lucas says urgently. “James, listen to me—you didn’t—”

But I’m already shaking my head, already drowning.

“She trusted me,” I sob. “They both did. And I failed them. I failed—”

My strength vanishes all at once. I sag forward, head dropping as everything I’ve been holding back finally breaks loose. The grief is violent, uncontrollable, ripping through me in waves I can’t outrun.

I scream.

Not for help. Not for mercy.

But because the pain has nowhere else to go.

Lucas and Zeb stay with me, anchoring me, absorbing the worst of it as I come apart in their arms.

And somewhere deep beneath the anguish—beneath the guilt and terror and rage—one brutal truth takes hold.

If they don’t survive this…

Neither will I.

❤️

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# Chapter 25

James

"Hey," Ben's voice cuts in, muffled like it's coming through water.

I don't look at him. I don't trust my face to hold, and I'm too damn tired to piece myself back together again.

It's been ten hours since my life split down the middle. Ten hours since the hospital swallowed up my little brother and spit me back out into a world where I can't touch either of the people I love.

I stare down at my hands.

They're clean now. I scrubbed them raw hours ago, but they still feel stained in ways soap can't reach. Palms up. Fingers slack. I study them like if I look hard enough, I'll find the exact second I let go. The exact moment I didn't hold on tight enough.

Across the hall, beyond another set of heavy doors, my brother lies in the ICU.

Hooked to more machines than I've ever seen, they've turned his body into a system of borrowed breath and borrowed time. Tubes arc from his mouth and disappear into a nest of plastic and blinking lights at his bedside. Wires trail beneath his hospital gown like veins rerouted because his own body just can't do the job anymore.

Monitors pulse and beep and hiss, each mechanical sound a steady reminder that his chest only rises because something else is doing the work for him.

At least he made it through surgery. That should mean something. It should feel like progress. Like relief. Like we're clawing our way back from the edge.

It doesn't.

Instead, it feels like I'm standing outside a locked door while the person I love most in this world lies on the other side, slowly drifting away. Like my palms are pressed flat against glass that won't shatter, my breath fogging the surface as the universe makes its decision, and all I can do is stand there, helpless to stop what's coming.

Memories of when I last looked in on him won't leave me alone.

His head wrapped in thick white bandages where they cut him open to relieve the swelling. The drains threading out from beneath the gauze, various shades of red as they pull blood and fluid from around his brain.

Then there are the words they used.

"Intracranial pressure."

"The next twenty-four hours are critical."

And not once—not a single time—did anyone say he's going to be okay.

Only, "
We'll have to wait and see."

The phrase grates against something old inside me.

Waiting is what you do when you're powerless. When you don't have fists, or money, or a weapon, or a choice. 

Waiting is what you do when you're five years old, sitting on a filthy kitchen floor with your baby brother in your lap, his ribs sharp beneath your hands as he whimpers from hunger and you listen for footsteps that might mean food. Or milk. Or at the very least, someone remembering you exist.

Footsteps that might never come.

I lift my gaze, eyes bloodshot and burning, because Ben is still there. Still sitting beside me. Still waiting for me to acknowledge him.

He looks tired. We all do. But his exhaustion doesn't carry Tyler's blood. It doesn't carry the image of my brother's body limp on a gurney. It doesn't echo with the sound of Annelly's voice when she made me promise I'd come back for her.

He clears his throat. "How's he doing?"

The question lands wrong. 

Not because he doesn't have the right to ask—he does—but because it's the kind of question people reach for when there's nothing safe left to say. When they're hoping for comfort in the form of words like 
fine. Stable. Improving. Showing good signs.

In Tyler's case, there aren't any of those words yet, and he knows it.

I swallow. My throat feels scraped raw, like I've been screaming for hours even though I've barely spoken.

"How do you think?" The words come out flat. Not loud. I don't have the energy for loud. "He's in ICU. Machines breathing for him."

Ben's jaw flexes, his gaze dropping in quiet acceptance. 

"I'm sorry," he says. And this time it isn't a polished apology from a team leader trying to manage morale. It's a man standing in the wreckage beside me with empty hands, wishing he had something helpful to offer. "I know it doesn't seem like enough, but... I am. Truly."

Something hot flares behind my ribs anyway.

Not because I blame him.

Not even because I want to hate him.

But because hate is easier than fear. Easier than admitting that none of us—no matter how trained, how armed, how connected—know how to fix this.

"I don't want to hear it."

The words snap out sharper than I intend. My gaze drops back to my hands, watching my fingers curl inward, nails biting into my palms hard enough to sting. The pain is immediate. Contained. Damn near comforting.

"Don't come in here with apologies, Ben. Not after everything you kept from me."

The silence that follows stretches thin between us.

I breathe in, cringing at the taste of antiseptic, burnt coffee, and the stale hints of despair that hang heavy in the air.

Ben shifts beside me. Slow. Careful. Like he's afraid one wrong movement might tip me over the edge. 

"James..." he starts.

I look at him then. Really look at him. And whatever he sees in my face makes him hesitate.

"You want to fix this?" My voice hardens. "Then fucking find her."

Because I can't stop seeing her. Can't stop imagining where she is. What she's going through. What he might already be doing to her. 

As brutal as it is that Tyler is here in the hospital, at least he's surrounded by life-saving machines and doctors and sterile light—

Whereas Annelly—

She's alone.

My throat constricts, and once again it's impossible to breathe.

Ben studies me for a long second, like he's weighing the cost of whatever he's about to say.

Then finally—

"We know where she is."

The words don't land at first. They hover between us, unreal, like my brain refuses to process them.

But then something inside me jolts into motion, my pulse slamming hard against my ribs as if it's been shocked back into rhythm.

"What did you just say?"

"The necklace," he answers quietly. "Owen was able to ping it to Bastille's club in Manhattan. She's been there since about eight this morning. From what we can tell, he flew her back to New York by helicopter."

She's in Manhattan.

The thought doesn't just land—it ignites, striking somewhere deep and catching fast like a spark to dry timber.

For hours I've been trapped in this hospital, suffocating beneath the weight of Tyler's condition, beneath the relentless pressure of not knowing where she is.

And all this time, she's been somewhere real.

Somewhere solid. Somewhere concrete.

A building with walls and windows and sightlines I can map in my head. A structure with exits I can force open if I have to. A location that exists in the physical world instead of the nightmare space of not knowing.

A place I can go. A place I can tear apart brick by brick if that's what it takes.

I'm on my feet before I consciously decide to move. "Then what the fuck are we still doing here?"

Across the room, Zeb's eyes lock onto mine.

And there it is. That quiet flicker of recognition.

He sees the change. The exact second the grief burns down into something colder. Harder. Controlled.

He's known me long enough to understand what that look means.

I'm going to war.

Ben exhales slowly, like he saw this coming. "Stop, James. We have a plan."

A hollow laugh slips out before I can stop it—especially when Lucas steps into my path, not aggressive but solid enough to make his point. A wall of muscle and reason between me and the door, buying time, trying to hold me in place long enough for logic to catch up with instinct.

I turn back to Ben, fury tightening beneath my skin, ready to explode—

But Tyler is down the hall. Still in ICU.

And I will not be the reason a nurse has to leave his side to come in here and ask us to keep it down.

So I rein it in. Force the fire inward.

"Sure you do," I say, my voice low and steady—more dangerous than if I were shouting. "So tell me something, Ben."

I hold his gaze.

"Why the fuck am I just hearing about this now?"

❤️

 
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Chapter 26

James

He ignores my tone and keeps going.

“Look. Hunt’s mobilizing NYPD. We’ve chartered a plane. Wheels up at four a.m. The plan is to go in as a unit. With backup. Warrants. Everything we need to make charges stick. We do this clean, James. We get the evidence to shut his operation down for good. And we bring her home. Safe.”

The certainty in his voice should steady me. For a fraction of a second, it almost does. Because yes. Thank God they have a plan.

But then—

Four a.m.?

My jaw tightens until pressure blooms at my temples.

“That’s eight hours from now,” I say, keeping my voice level. “By the time we reach her, he’ll have had her for over twenty-four hours.”

I let that sit between us.

“Do you understand what that could mean for her?”

“Yes.”

The answer comes too quickly, and something dark shifts inside me. Because if he truly understood—if he truly grasped what Bastille is capable of—he wouldn’t be asking me to wait.

“He’s already threatened her,” I say, my voice low, almost a growl. “To violate her. Torture her. Hurt her. What happens if in those eight hours that’s no longer enough? What if he escalates? What if he decides to remind us how little he fears us by using her to make a point?”

I don’t spell it out.

I don’t have to.

Ben’s eyes flicker anyway, betraying he’s well aware of the what-ifs neither of us is willing to give voice to.

“We can’t rush this,” he replies. “Victor has connections. The DA’s office. Judges. The police commissioner. If we tip our hand too soon, he disappears. He relocates. And we lose her.”

Lose her…

The words land with surgical precision.

For a split second, the room narrows. The air thins.

I’ve spent my whole life fighting not to lose the people I love.

And I am not losing her.

I straighten slowly. Shoulders settling back. Spine locking into place. The tremor in my chest compresses into something colder.

“I’m not waiting until morning.”

It isn’t anger.

It’s fact.

Because everything he just said confirms what my instincts have been screaming at me since he told me where she is. Waiting gives Bastille time. Waiting gives him room to maneuver. Waiting gives him control.

No.

I’m done sitting back and letting him have the upper hand.

The room shifts around me. Ben stills. Lucas adjusts his stance. Zeb’s gaze sharpens. Even Agent Halder, silent in the corner until now, leans forward almost imperceptibly.

Lucas steps in. “James—”

“No.” My voice doesn’t rise. It hardens. “My brother is in a coma. Dominick took a bullet protecting her and nearly died. Bastille breached my home and put his hands on everything that matters to me.” I hold Ben’s eyes. “I’m not sitting here doing nothing while she’s at his mercy. I refuse.”

Ben’s expression hardens.

“We’re not asking you to do nothing. We’re asking you to give us time to get this right. For her. You need to hold it together. Keep your head clear.”

“My head’s never been clearer.”

It’s the absolute truth. And that’s the part they should be afraid of.

“Which is why I’m not waiting. I’m heading to New York. First flight I can get.”

Silence settles over the room, heavy and strained.

Across from me, Zeb shifts in his seat, and our eyes meet again. Nothing obvious passes between us—no nod, no words—but it’s there all the same. The understanding. The inevitability.

He knows I’m not asking for permission.

And he’s already decided he’s coming with me.

“Absolutely not. We go together. That’s the plan.” Ben tries again, his voice sharpening with authority, but it’s useless. Nothing he says is going to change my mind, and he damn well knows it.

He exhales hard, dragging a hand over his face before looking back at me.

“Fine. Recon only. You don’t move. You don’t take a single fucking step without my say-so. Understood, James? Not one.”

I don’t argue. There’s no point. I just hold his gaze and nod.

Recon.

Sure.

That’s what we’ll call it. That’s what I’ll let them believe until I find my opening. Until I see where she is and confirm she’s okay.

After that—

If she’s hurt or worse—

The thought burns like acid in my chest.

Nothing in hell will hold me back.

Lucas steps into my space, the look that passes between us making it clear he knows exactly where my head’s at.

“Keep it together out there,” he says quietly. “Play it smart. You lose control, you jeopardize everything. Including her. Remember that.”

I meet his eyes and don’t look away.

“I won’t lose control.”

Not this time.

If anything, knowing she’s counting on me has stripped everything unnecessary away—the noise, the panic, the chaos that usually clouds the edges of my decisions.

What’s left is focus.

Lucas studies me for a long moment, searching for something—hesitation, fracture, doubt. Anything that might give him leverage to convince Ben to keep me here.

He won’t find it.

Not because it isn’t there.

But because I’ve buried it deep enough that even I can’t reach it.

“I’m going to check on Tyler,” I say finally, my voice steady in a way that feels almost unfamiliar in my throat. “And then I’m leaving.”

No one argues.

Not that I stay long enough to hear it if they do.

❤️

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# Chapter 27

James

Now that it's evening, the ICU is dimmer than it was earlier, the overhead lights lowered to a sterile twilight that hums faintly against my nerves. The air feels thicker at this hour. More oppressive. 

Nurses move from room to room in soft-soled shoes that whisper against the polished floor, their voices hushed, their smiles gentle as they pass me.

It's wrong.

There's nothing gentle about this place. Nothing warm. Nothing that should feel even remotely comforting.

I stop outside his room, my hand hovering inches from the handle. The glass walls turn the space into an aquarium, and for a second, I can't make myself look inside. Because part of me is terrified that what I'll see will be different.

Something worse.

Something that means he's closer to that end I refuse to think about.

My chest tightens. I drag in a breath that doesn't go deep enough, then force myself through the door anyway.

The rhythmic hiss of the ventilator greets me first, followed by the steady mechanical beeping of the monitor tracking his heart. A cold symphony that now stands between Tyler and whatever waits on the other side of their silence.

He looks smaller in this bed. 

Even smaller than he did on the gurney in the back of the ambulance. 

My gaze betrays me, tracing the thick white bandages wrapped around his head. Down to the drains threading from beneath his skull—a cruel reminder of what the doctors had to do to keep him here.

Bruises bloom under his eyes, along his jaw, down to his collarbone. Angry and dark against skin that's far too pale.

I move to his side slowly, as if any sudden motion might break whatever fragile hold he still has on this world, and lower myself into the lone, unforgiving chair beside the bed.

His hand rests on top of the blanket.

Still.

Too still. 

Careful not to disturb the wires and tubes tethering him here, I slide my fingers around his and lift his hand into mine.

Cold.

God, he's so damn cold.

The chill seeps into my skin, and something inside me fractures under the weight of it. My jaw locks, but it's useless. The tears come anyway—hot, relentless, unstoppable.

"Hey, Ty," I murmur, my voice barely more than breath.

The ventilator exhales for him.

Then in.

Out.

In.

Out.

Borrowed breath.

Borrowed time.

"I uh... I have to leave you for a bit." My thumb brushes across his knuckles the way I used to when he'd fall asleep in my arms as a baby, his tiny fists wrapped tight in my shirt like he knew I was the only solid thing in his world. "Bastille's got Annelly. He took her back to New York."

The words scrape on the way out, thick with everything I'm forcing down.

"I'm going to find her. And I'm bringing her home."

I tighten my grip just enough to feel the bones beneath his skin. This time it's me clinging to him, like he's the only solid thing left in a world that won't stop shifting beneath my feet. 

"I need you to hold on, Ty." My forehead lowers to the back of his hand. "While I'm gone, I need you to get better. After everything we've been through—everything we've survived—you don't get to check out on me now. Not like this."

The monitor keeps its steady rhythm. Unmoved. Unimpressed.

"You hear me?" My voice roughens. "You have to fight. You have to stay. You have to wake up."

Because I can't do this alone.

"Because I need you there when I ask her to marry me," I whisper, closing my eyes as the image rises fully formed. 

Annelly in white. Sunlight caught in her hair. Tyler at my side, elbowing me just before I speak, grinning like the troublemaker he is, after whispering something wildly inappropriate to make me stumble over my vows. 

"I need you standing next to me when I put that ring on her finger. I need you there while we build something better than the mess we came from."

My throat tightens, but I don't stop.

"When we have kids, I need you around. I need you to be the fun uncle who teaches them the things I pretend they're too young to know. The things I'll act pissed about but secretly be grateful to you for. I need you to spoil them rotten."

My grip tightens around his hand.

"And make sure they always feel safe. Loved."

A breath catches in my chest.

"I want it to be you they go to when life gets too heavy. When they need someone who just gets them. Someone other than their mom or dad."

I swallow hard.

"And I need you here when the demons resurface. When I forget who I am." My voice lowers. "You've always been the one who reminds me."

Because I will forget.

Trauma doesn't disappear. It waits. It circles. And the second you think you're stronger than it, it claws its way back in.

"We've been fighting our whole damn lives side by side," I murmur. "So don't you dare stop now. I'm right here, Tyler. Still here. Fighting for you."

I press my forehead harder into his hand.

"Fight for me too."

For a heartbeat, I let the fear in. Let myself imagine walking back into this room when this is over and finding it quiet. Still. Empty.

No ventilator. No borrowed breath. No second chances.

My hand tightens around his without thinking.

"I can't lose you," I whisper. "I can't lose either of you."

And I won't.

Not today. Not next week. Not ever.

The words settle into my bones, solid and immovable.

"I won't fail again," I say, and this time it isn't a plea. It's a promise. "I'll make this right."

My gaze hardens.

"And he's going to pay."

If it's the last thing I do.

I press my lips to the back of his hand, lingering a heartbeat longer than I should before easing it back onto the blanket. Letting go feels like tearing something out of my own chest, but I make myself do it anyway.

Because as long as he's here—surrounded by machines and doctors and sterile light—he still has a fighting chance.

Annelly does not.

"I love you, Ty," I murmur. "Always."

Then I turn and walk out before I can change my mind.

To my surprise, Zeb is waiting for me outside, leaning against the far wall like a sentry guarding his post. He straightens when he sees me and falls into step beside me without a word. 

"How's he look?" he asks quietly as we head toward the elevators.

"Like hell," I answer. "But he's still with us."

For now, that has to be enough.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. We step inside. As they close, my reflection stares back at me from the mirrored wall.

Bloodshot eyes. Hollowed edges. And something else. Something colder. That version of me I swore I'd never be again.

Reaper.

I wasn't lying when I told Ben I'm flying out ahead of the team to do recon. To gather intel. To wait for the green light before making a move.

That 
is
 the plan.

But if an opportunity presents itself—if there is even the smallest window to get her out—if I see with my own eyes that she needs me—

I won't wait. I won't hesitate. I won't ask for permission.

Because waiting is what you do when you're powerless. 

And I am not powerless anymore.

❤️

 
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REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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Chapter 28

Annelly

The last of the daylight disappears slowly. A gentle, creeping fade as the sun finally slips beneath the New York skyline outside.

By the time darkness settles over the room, the only light left comes from a pair of low lamps on either side of the bed. Their amber glow spills across the velvet walls and the towering carved headboard behind me, turning everything into shadows that feel almost alive.

Like a cathedral built for sin.

I lie exactly where he left me.

Flat on my back. Wrists stretched above my head, ankles pulled wide apart and secured to the massive posts of the bed with thick leather restraints. The position leaves me completely exposed. Completely helpless. Every muscle in my body screams from hours of being held in place like this.

Cold air skims across my bare skin.

My shoulders ache. My hips burn. My wrists throb where the leather has bitten deep into the flesh. The skin there feels raw and swollen from the countless times I’ve twisted and fought and tried to pull free.

None of it worked.

My bladder aches painfully. My throat feels like sandpaper. My stomach has been gnawing at itself for what feels like hours.

But none of that is the worst part.

The worst part is the anticipation.

The slow, creeping dread as I listen for the sound of the door. As I try to brace myself—emotionally, psychologically, physically—for the moment he returns.

My gaze drifts toward the ceiling again, tracing the ornate plasterwork carved into the surface above the bed. Gold leaf curls through the design, catching the faint lamplight and reflecting it down in warped patterns that slide across the walls.

The paintings that line the space are worse.

Even without turning my head, I can see them from the corners of my vision—huge oil canvases mounted in heavy gilded frames. Scenes of violence. Sin. Bodies tangled in ways that make my stomach turn.

Everything about this room whispers the same message.

You’re trapped. You’re powerless. You’re at his mercy.

I close my eyes.

Breathe in. Slow. Deep.

Then I do it again.

You’ve done this before, Annelly.

The memory comes unbidden—stage lights burning hot against my skin, the weight of a costume pressing against my body, the roar of applause echoing through a packed theater.

The stage.

Opening night.

The role that changed everything.

The role that introduced the monster into my life.

A frightened, helpless woman. The damsel everyone underestimated. But underneath the fear… underneath the tears… she had been something else entirely.

A fighter.

A survivor.

She won by letting the monster believe she was weak.

I swallow slowly, forcing the panic clawing at my chest back down where it belongs.

Play the part.

Cry when he expects it. Look down when he demands submission.

Give him just enough fear to make him believe he’s winning.

Survive long enough for James to find you.

Because he will.

The thought settles deep in my bones with a quiet certainty.

James will come. He will find me. And when he does… he’ll burn this place to the ground to save me.

The faintest sound of movement outside the door snaps my eyes open.

Footsteps.

Slow. Unhurried.

The handle turns.

The door opens.

Victor steps inside like he owns the world.

He closes the door behind him with a soft click before turning toward the bed. His dark suit jacket is gone now, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled neatly to his elbows. The faint scent of cigars and expensive whiskey drifts into the room with him, clinging to the air like a second shadow.

His gaze finds mine immediately, and a slow smile spreads across his face.

Not warm.

Not kind.

Satisfied.

“Good evening, my dove.” His voice is smooth. Calm. Almost affectionate. Like this is nothing more than a quiet visit between lovers.

I swallow hard, forcing my breathing to hitch just enough to show hints of my fear as my eyes drop toward the restraints at my wrists.

“I… I have to use the restroom,” I whisper, letting my voice tremble. “Please.”

Victor’s smile deepens.

“You’re so beautiful when you beg.”

He strolls toward the bed, his footsteps the only sound in the room. When he reaches the foot of the mattress, he pauses, looking down at me the way a collector might admire a piece of art.

Then he begins unfastening the restraints around my ankles.

The leather loosens.

My legs collapse inward immediately, muscles trembling violently after hours of being forced apart.

Victor glances up at me, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You’ll soon learn that hiding from me is fruitless,” he murmurs softly.

He moves to the head of the bed.

The final buckle slips free, releasing my arms—but before I can move, his hand closes around both of my wrists, pinning them to the pillows above me.

“If you try anything,” he says quietly, lifting his gaze to mine, “I promise you things will become very unpleasant.”

The words are spoken gently. Almost lovingly.

Which somehow makes them all the more terrifying.

“Are we clear?”

I nod quickly, fear tightening my throat. Exactly what he wants.

He studies my face a moment longer, like he’s trying to peel back my thoughts to see what’s hiding underneath.

Then finally—

I’m free.

Blood rushes painfully back into my arms as I push myself upright, the sudden movement clumsy and unsteady. Instinctively, I cross my hands over my chest in a useless attempt to cover myself.

Victor watches the jerky motion with open interest, his eyes lingering on the trembling of my fingers.

“Come,” he says, gesturing toward the bathroom across the room. “The door stays open.”

I slide carefully off the edge of the mattress.

The moment my feet touch the floor, my knees nearly buckle. Pins and needles shoot violently through my legs after hours of being stretched and restrained. I grip the edge of the bed, forcing myself to stay upright until the worst of the sensation passes.

Victor watches the entire thing with quiet amusement. Like a man observing the fruits of his labor. Like I’m something unfinished—something he’s still shaping.

I keep my head lowered as I step toward the bathroom, arms wrapped across my chest in a useless attempt at modesty. Suddenly, I’m grateful he at least left my panties on, even if the thin scrap of fabric barely counts as clothing.

To my dismay, most of my breasts remain completely exposed, and I can feel his eyes on them as I move past him.

Watching.

Assessing.

Like he owns me.

I do as he says and leave the bathroom door open.

Marble everywhere.

Dark stone counters.

Gold fixtures.

It looks like something pulled straight from the pages of a luxury design magazine. And like everything else in this place, it’s immaculate.

Unsettlingly so.

I step inside, immediately scanning every inch of the room.

Sink.

Counter.

Shower.

Towels.

No glass containers. No bottles. No toothbrush. No decorative items. No sharp edges. Nothing loose. Nothing that could be turned into a weapon.

The room is stripped down to the bare minimum. Because of course, he’s thought of everything.

Outside the doorway, I hear the faint shift of fabric as he leans against the wall of the bedroom, waiting for me.

Listening.

I open the toilet lid and sit quickly, relief hitting me so hard it nearly makes me dizzy. My hands shake as I press them into my thighs, forcing myself to breathe through the panic threatening to rise again.

Think.

Pretend this is a stage. Part of the script.

Every movement matters. Every reaction matters.

If I want to survive this, I have to control what he sees. What he thinks.

I finish as quickly as I can, flush, then wash my hands slowly, using the extra seconds to take one last look around the bathroom.

There’s nothing.

Not a single thing I can use to protect myself.

No hidden door or window to aid my escape.

My heart sinks, but I force myself to bury it—to hide the sudden wave of despair, the crushing sense of helplessness. Because no matter what happens, I can’t let him see it.

When I step back out into the bedroom, he’s exactly where I left him, leaning casually against the wall beside the bathroom door, arms crossed over his chest.

His gaze sweeps slowly over my body the moment I appear.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod quickly.

“Thank you.” The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I remind myself they’re just part of the performance.

Victor pushes away from the wall and steps into my space. Before I can react, his hands close gently around my wrists, lifting them towards the lamplight.

His thumb brushes over the raw skin where the restraints had cut into me earlier.

“You hurt yourself.” His voice is soft. Concerned. Loving in a way that’s so surreal it sends a chill racing down my spine.

He lifts my wrist and presses a kiss against the irritated flesh.

My stomach twists violently.

“Trying to escape me again,” he murmurs, sounding disappointed.

I lower my eyes and let my shoulders slump slightly.

Play the part, Annelly.

“You hungry, my love?” he asks. “Thirsty?”

I nod.

He releases my wrists and pulls his phone from his pocket, dialing a number with casual efficiency. His eyes never leave my face the entire time, even as I keep mine lowered.

“Felix,” he says when the call connects. “Bring dinner up.”

A pause.

“For two. I’ll be eating up here.”

He ends the call and slips the phone back into his pocket, still watching me like I’m something fascinating under a microscope.

The silence stretches.

I shift under his gaze before forcing the words out. “Could I… have some clothes?”

His lips twitch. A soft chuckle escapes him.

“Oh, Annelly.”

He steps closer again, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath.

“I’m afraid not.”

His fingers rise, brushing lightly along my cheek before sliding down the curve of my jaw.

“Clothes are a privilege.”

The thumb of his other hand grazes my lower lip before continuing downward.

“One you haven’t earned back yet.”

My pulse thunders as his hand continues its slow descent—down my throat, across the center of my chest.

I force myself not to recoil.

Not to flinch.

Not to give him the reaction he wants.

“You ran from me,” he continues quietly.

His fingers drift lower, tracing the curve of my breasts in a way that almost makes me whimper from fear.

“You hid yourself away with another man. For months.”

His thumb brushes deliberately across my nipple.

Heat flashes behind my eyes.

It’s humiliation. Rage. Fear.

But I keep my gaze lowered.

“Such disobedience deserves consequences.”

His hands slide around my waist, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against him.

“My defiant little dove.”

The nickname makes my stomach churn. Every instinct in my body screams at me to fight—to claw his face open, to shove him away, to run.

But I force it all back.

Force the instinct down.

The girl from the stage rises quietly inside me. The frightened girl. The submissive girl. The girl he believes is too weak to defy him.

That girl saved me once.

She can save me again.

Victor’s mouth crashes down on mine before I can brace for it. The kiss is rough. Possessive. His hand clamps around the back of my neck, holding me in place as the bitter taste of whiskey and cigar smoke floods my mouth.

My stomach lurches.

His other hand roams freely over my body—squeezing, groping, claiming.

A low groan vibrates in his chest when I shiver beneath his touch.

Oh God.

He thinks I like it .

Panic claws up my throat as his grip tightens and his body presses harder against mine.

Is this it?

Is this the moment he finally takes what he wants?

A sharp knock at the door slices through the room.

Victor pulls away immediately, irritation flashing briefly across his face.

“Come in.”

The door opens.

Felix enters first, followed by another man I don’t recognize. Both of them freeze for half a second when they see me standing there in the center of the room.

Half-naked.

Completely exposed.

Heat floods my face as I instinctively wrap my arms around myself, trying to cover what little I can.

Victor notices.

His gaze drifts slowly over the way I’m trying to hide, lingering on the tight curve of my shoulders, the way my hands clutch at my body.

Then, slowly, he smiles.

Not at them.

At me.

This is all part of the game, I realize.

Another way to prove his power over me. Another way to humiliate me.

“Set the table,” he says coolly, not even sparing the men a glance.

The two men move quickly, unloading covered dishes from the tray they’ve brought in. The scent of rich food fills the room almost immediately.

Fish.

Butter.

Herbs.

Fresh bread.

My stomach twists painfully as the smells drift toward me.

Within minutes, they’ve arranged an elaborate spread at the small dining table near the window. Candles flicker softly. A vase of red roses sits carefully in the center, as if this is some romantic dinner. Like I’m his date and not a prisoner.

Felix finally glances toward Victor. “Anything else, boss?”

Victor shakes his head. “You may go.”

The two men leave without another word, the door clicking shut behind them.

And suddenly, we’re alone again.

❤️

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# Chapter 29

Annelly

Victor turns toward the table.

"Sit down," he says lightly. "And eat quickly so we can get you back into bed."

My stomach drops.

The words 
back into bed
 echo through my head like a quiet death sentence, settling heavy in my chest. For a moment, I simply stand there, arms folded instinctively across my bare chest as though the thin barrier might somehow shield me from this nightmare.

Victor watches me with open patience. Like a man who knows there's nowhere for me to go and is simply waiting for me to accept it.

Tapping back into the frightened girl he expects to see, I move toward the table and take a seat, forcing my shoulders to relax even though every muscle in my body is screaming at me to run. The chair scrapes softly across the floor as I settle into it, my fingers curling around the edge of the table. 

Victor lowers himself into the seat across from me with unhurried ease.

He lifts his wineglass and swirls the dark liquid slowly, studying the color before taking a measured sip. Candlelight flickers across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw and catching briefly on a faint scar along his temple I've never noticed before now.

Everything about him screams predator.

Every instinct in my body recognizes it.

"Eat," he commands as he reaches for his fork.

I hesitate just long enough to earn the look. It's subtle—barely more than a shift in his expression—but the threat behind it is unmistakable.

My fingers tighten around the fork as I lower my gaze and obey.

The food is exquisite. Perfectly prepared. Delicate fish resting in a pale butter sauce, surrounded by vegetables I can't even name. Everything about the meal speaks of wealth and refinement, of a world so far removed from the one I grew up in it might as well exist on another planet.

But it tastes like ash in my mouth.

Victor watches me take the first bite with obvious satisfaction.

"That's better."

For several long minutes, we sit in uneasy silence, the soft clink of silverware the only sound in the room as he eats with quiet enjoyment. Eventually he begins to talk—about the club, about the night's business, about some investor who apparently wants to expand operations down in Miami.

His tone is relaxed. Conversational. 

As though this is nothing more than dinner between lovers.

Meanwhile I focus on the simple act of eating, forcing myself to take slow, careful bites even though my stomach is twisted into tight, painful knots. 

Every second I remain at this table is another second he isn't touching me. Another second he isn't dragging me back into that bed.

So I stretch the moment out for as long as I possibly can.

Eventually, though, Victor sets his fork down. The soft clink of metal against porcelain echoes through the room.

My heart stutters.

He wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin beside his plate before leaning back in his chair, studying me with a quiet, contemplative expression that makes the fine hairs along the back of my neck rise.

"Tonight," he says at last, "you'll remain here in this room until the club closes."

My pulse spikes.

"Unfortunately," he continues calmly, "because I don't trust you to stay where I put you, you'll need to be restrained again."

His gaze drifts briefly toward the bed behind me.

The words hit like a physical blow.

The chair scrapes loudly across the floor as I push to my feet, panic surging through me before I can stop it.

"No. Please—" The plea tears out from my throat, raw and desperate.

Victor's eyebrows lift slightly, as if the outburst has mildly surprised him.

I step toward him before I can think better of it, my heart racing, every nerve in my body screaming that I have to stop this before it happens again.

"I won't run," I say quickly, the promise tumbling over itself as I try to make him understand. "I swear I won't. I'll stay right here. I'll do whatever you want. Just... please don't tie me back to that bed."

For a long moment he says nothing.

He simply watches me.

Then, with an almost thoughtful expression, he rises slowly from his chair. The movement alone sends a shiver down my spine.

Victor circles the table in unhurried steps until he comes to a stop behind me. I feel the light brush of his fingers slipping through my hair, the touch so gentle it makes my stomach twist before the soft press of his lips lands against the side of my neck.

"Sweet girl," he murmurs. His hands settle lightly around my waist, warm yet intrusive. "You misunderstand."

His voice is soft. Affectionate. Almost tender.

"I'm not restraining you to punish you." His fingers tighten slightly. "I'm restraining you because I love you. Because I want to keep you."

The words slide across my skin like poison.

Before I can react, he turns me gently toward the bed and begins guiding me forward with quiet insistence. My legs feel like they're made of stone, each step heavier than the last, the mattress looming closer with every movement like the mouth of some dark pit waiting to swallow me whole.

Victor sits me down gently. Almost reverently. 

Then he begins fastening the restraints again.

First one wrist. 

The leather pulls tight, biting into the already irritated skin.

Then the other.

My chest rises and falls unevenly as I fight to control the panic, but the tears come anyway—hot and silent, sliding down the sides of my face as he spreads my legs apart so he can secure my ankles to the bedposts once more.

"There," Victor says softly when he finishes. 

His hands linger on my skin, tracing lightly along my shivering flesh as though admiring his work. 

"You see?"

He leans over me, his mouth brushing against my lips, his breath warm against my skin.

"It's for your own protection." 

Behind me, his hand tests the restraints at my wrists, making sure they're good and tight.

I can't help it. A whimper slips past my lips as the helplessness settles over me, thick and suffocating, pulling me under like quicksand.

Victor straightens slowly, his gaze drifting over me with open hunger now as he takes in the way the restraints hold me in place.

This time, when he bends down to kiss me, it's deep. Unforgiving. The bitter taste of wine floods my mouth. The violent intrusion of his tongue as he takes what he wants finally makes something inside me snap.

As he goes to pull away, my teeth sink hard into his lower lip. 

He jerks back with a sharp curse, the metallic scent of blood blooming instantly between us.

For half a second, the room goes completely still. 

Neither of us breathing.

Victor lifts a hand slowly to his mouth, staring at the smear of red across his fingers like he can't quite believe what just happened. 

Then his eyes lift to mine. 

Something dark flickers there. 

And before I see it coming, his fist slams into the side of my face.

It's violent. 

Brutal.

Pain explodes through my skull. Behind my eyes. My head snaps to the side unnaturally as stars burst across my vision and a broken sob escapes before I can stop it.

Victor stands over me, breathing hard.

But then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face.

Dark.

Thrilled.

"God," he mutters, wiping the blood from his lip with his thumb. "That was so fucking hot."

A low laugh slips from him as he shakes his head, staring down at me like he's just discovered something fascinating.

"We're going to have a lot of fun playing with that. Testing your limits. And mine. Pushing you to fight me."

His hand drifts down to palm himself through his pants, the gesture obscene and casual all at once.

"I want to fuck you so badly right now." The look in his eyes turns almost feverish. "But patience..." he murmurs, almost to himself. "Drawing it out intensifies the pleasure."

Then he straightens, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as his composure settles back into place. The confident businessman is back. That charming smile—the one that once tricked me into trusting him—slides easily across his face again.

"Tonight, I'll claim what's mine. And when it's done, you'll finally see. You'll understand that your place is with me."

His gaze darkens.

"That you'll never escape me again."

Then he turns and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Leaving me alone once more.

Tied to the bed.

Unable to escape.

With nothing left to do but wait. 

For the moment he comes back to finally break me.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
You'll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 30

James

The helicopter dips lower over Manhattan, the rotors thundering above us as the skyline rises up to meet us like a wall of glass and light.

Below, the city glows and flickers. Endless grids of headlights crawl along the streets like veins of molten ruby and gold. Cars weaving through traffic. Neon signs burn against the darkness.

Midnight may have settled over the island, but Manhattan never really sleeps. It just… shifts into something else.

A different set of predators. A different type of hunt.

Normally I’d notice the beauty behind it all. The scale of it. The buzzing electricity that hums through a city this alive.

But tonight I see none of it. Instead, my eyes stay locked on the coordinates glowing on the tablet in my lap.

Latitude. Longitude. A blinking blue marker that might as well be a knife twisting slowly in my chest.

Victor Bastille’s club.

Annelly.

My jaw tightens.

Three hours.

That’s how long it’s taken us to get here since saying goodbye to my still-unconscious baby brother.

Since walking out of that hospital room while machines breathed for him… wondering if that was the last time I’d ever see him alive. Wondering if by leaving him, I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life.

And as if that wasn’t enough to damn near crush me, every second of those three hours my mind has been feeding me images of what that monster might be doing to her while we sat there uselessly—first on the airport tarmac, then in the air, chewing through miles of blackened sky.

Images that refuse to leave me the hell alone.

My fingers curl slowly into fists.

Across from me, Zeb leans out through the open door as the Downtown Skyport heliport comes into view—a wide concrete square stretching out at the end of a pier in the middle of the East River.

Wind howls through the cabin as the helicopter banks left.

“Two minutes out,” Nathan’s voice crackles through the headset.

My old friend Nathan Banks sits in the cockpit, hands steady on the controls as if this is just another night flight. Another group of adrenaline junkies chasing skyline views and adventure.

If only.

Unfortunately, this isn’t some thrill ride.

This is our march into war.

Zeb leans closer to the opening, scanning the ground below as it rises toward us.

“Pad’s clear,” he says into his headset.

Nathan nods and eases the helicopter lower.

The city surges upward around us—steel, glass, and concrete swallowing the sky as the rotor wash kicks loose grit and river spray across the concrete.

My pulse pounds in my ears.

Somewhere in this city… she’s waiting.

I can feel it.

Feel her.

And every second we waste getting to her feels like another failure carved into my skin.

But then so does everything I left behind.

My brother. In a hospital bed, fighting to stay alive in a world where I walked away from him.

What if he can’t survive without me?

What if he needs my voice to drag him back into the land of the living?

The fact that I’m even in this position—forced to choose between my brother and the woman I love—nearly locks my body in place.

For half a second I freeze under the weight of it, like a deer caught in headlights.

Unable to move. To think. To breathe.

To be certain I made the right call.

The weight of what’s at stake threatens to crush me.

Tyler.

Annelly.

Two people I should have protected.

Two people I might already be too late to save.

And sitting here helpless—trapped in this damn helicopter with nothing to do but wait—only makes the feeling of suffocation worse.

I shift forward in my seat, the safety harness tightening across my chest.

“We need to speed this up,” I mutter, knowing they’ll hear me through the mic.

Nathan snorts through the headset. “Relax, Serrano. Thirty more seconds.”

Thirty seconds.

It might as well be a lifetime.

The helicopter drops the final stretch, and the landing skids scrape the concrete with a jolt that rattles through my bones.

Zeb shoves the door the rest of the way open. Cold wind tears through the cabin, flattening my sweatshirt against my chest as we step out onto the heliport landing pad. The rotors are still screaming overhead, the blades carving violent circles through the night air.

But the moment my boots hit the concrete, something inside me locks into place.

This is it.

Time to shut it down. Pull my shit together and focus on what matters.

Taking Bastille down, once and for all.

Zeb hauls our gear from the back while I shrug on my rucksack, tightening the straps securely over my shoulders and across my chest.

The skyline stretches around us in every direction—towers of glass burning with late-night office lights, red aircraft beacons blinking lazily atop distant buildings.

Somewhere among them is Bastille’s club.

And inside it—

Annelly.

I force the thought away before it can finish forming.

Nathan leans out of the cockpit window, headset crooked over one ear.

“You boys sure you don’t want the scenic tour first?” he calls over the roar.

I glance up at him. Even in the dim spill of the floodlights, he can see the answer written all over my face.

The grin fades.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Didn’t think so.”

Zeb slings our weapons bag over his shoulder, already moving like we’re on a ticking clock.

I step closer to the cockpit.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say.

Nathan studies me for a second, eyes narrowing slightly. He’s flown me around enough times on my little “side trips” over the years to recognize when things are about to get messy.

Tonight ranks pretty high on that scale.

“You need pickup?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not tonight. The rest of the team’s on their way.”

A quiet beat passes between us.

Nathan exhales slowly, then gives a small nod.

“Well,” he says, pushing the headset back into place. “Try not to burn the city down, Serrano. City folk tend to get a little cranky about that.”

A corner of my mouth twitches.

“No promises.”

His grin flashes briefly before he pulls the door closed with a salute, and I step back.

The rotors surge louder as the helicopter lifts again, wind blasting across the pier as the aircraft rises back into the Manhattan sky.

I watch it climb for a second before it disappears into the skyline.

Zeb turns toward the terminal. “Let’s go. Car’s waiting.”

I fall in beside him.

And just like that… the hunt begins.

❤️

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REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

# Chapter 31

James

The cold Manhattan air bites through my sweatshirt as Zeb and I push through the terminal doors and out onto the street.

Traffic roars along FDR Drive even at this late hour, headlights streaking past as engines growl and horns blare somewhere in the distance. Groups of people crowd the sidewalks, some still in their business suits, others dressed for a night out, laughing loudly as they weave past one another.

The city moves around us as if nothing in the world were wrong. Everyone locked inside their own little orbit, too busy chasing money, status, or whatever version of success they've convinced themselves matters more than anything. All content to ignore the darkness creeping along the edges of their city as long as it doesn't threaten the illusion of perfection they fight so hard to maintain.

This is life in New York City.

The exciting yet soul-crushing world I remember well from my modeling days. A world I'm still grateful Tyler and I managed to escape for the quieter life waiting for us back in Ruby Creek.

A place where we could finally breathe.

And just be.

A place where I no longer had to pretend to be anyone other than me. Where I could build security and stability for my baby brother, who above all, deserved the peace he never got as a kid.

Zeb's gaze sweeps the street once before he nods toward a dark sedan idling at the curb.

"That'll be ours."

The past falls away in an instant. The mission snaps back into focus.

One look at the car and I know he's right. Owen's handiwork. The man is just that goddamn efficient.

The car unlocks the moment we reach it, the headlights blinking once in silent acknowledgment. Zeb tosses our bags into the back seat and slides behind the wheel while I climb into the passenger side.

The engine is already running.

I pull the tablet from the front pocket of the gear bag and wake the screen. Owen's latest message is waiting.

Owen:
 
TRACKER SIGNAL CONFIRMED–BASTILLE SOCIAL CLUB–WEST 48TH STREET.

Below that sits a cluster of files—blueprints, security layouts, camera placements.

Typical Owen. He doesn't do half measures.

The car pulls away from the curb and merges into the stream of traffic with seamless ease. Only then does Zeb glance over.

"What've we got?"

I tilt the screen so he can see the building layout glowing on the display.

"Floor plans," I say. "Security grid. Feeds. Exits and entrances. Service corridors. Staffing schedule. Employee profiles. He got us everything."

Zeb's eyebrows lift slightly. "Damn."

"Firewalls are still blocking interior cameras," I add. "He's working on it."

Zeb exhales slowly through his nose, turning so we're following the East River.

"Good." He taps the steering wheel once. "Because we can't do what we do without eyes."

My jaw tightens.

Everything in me screams that I need to see her. To see with my own eyes that she's okay. At the same time, another part of me warns that maybe I shouldn't. Because once I do... if I see that he's hurt even one hair on her head, all bets will be off. And then all hell will break loose.

"Yep... things are about to get real fucking messy," I mutter under my breath, turning my attention back to the passing city.

Outside the window, Manhattan slides past in streaks of neon light, concrete, and glass.

Thirty-five minutes.

That's all that stands between us and Bastille's club.

Thirty-five minutes before the bastard finally learns what happens when you mess with someone who belongs to me.

The soft ping of an incoming message pulls my attention back to the tablet.

Beside me, Zeb drives with both hands steady on the wheel, his eyes flicking between the road and the screen in my hands.

"Another set of blueprints." I swipe through the new file. "She's three floors up above street level." My finger taps the layout. "The main club space takes up the entire first floor. Administrative offices and VIP guest areas are on the second. Guest quarters and efficiency apartments are on the third. Larger family apartments take up the fourth through ninth floors. His penthouse is on the tenth."

My stomach churns.

Three floors up. 

Means she's locked somewhere inside one of those smaller apartments—with him. Doing God knows what to her.

The realization wakes the monster in my chest, fury rising fast and hot beneath my ribs, and it takes everything I have not to squeeze the fucking tablet until it shatters.

"What about access points?" Zeb asks, completely oblivious to how close I am to losing it. "Doubt we'll be using the front door."

"Loading dock," I say gruffly, scanning Owen's notes. "There's a storage area that exits into the alley, but it's well guarded. Looks like there's also a staff entrance. Might be a viable point of entry, but it's safe to assume it's also under tight surveillance." I zoom in on another corner of the plans. "There are fire escapes too, but with this level of security, we'd be seen before we even reached the first window."

I lean back slightly in the seat, the exhaustion of the past several days—and the weight of everything still to come—finally catching up with me.

"Any way you slice it, there's no easy way in. Or out."

Zeb nods slowly. "Not surprising."

I scroll again, looking for anything I might have missed.

Owen's footprint is all over these files—notations scribbled across the architectural plans, camera icons marked in red, potential blind spots circled in bright yellow.

He's been busy.

When the hell did he have time to do all this?

Zeb's fingers start tapping faster against the steering wheel before he glances over at me.

"So," he says casually, like we're discussing dinner plans instead of a criminal empire's fortress. "We doing this Ben's way?"

I don't answer right away. I know exactly what he's asking. And why. 

Ben's orders were clear. Get to New York. Scout the location. Recon only. Then sit on our hands and wait for the rest of the team. No moves without his approval.

Though I agreed at the time, we both know waiting has never exactly been my strong suit.

Zeb snorts quietly beside me.

"Yeah," he mutters. "Didn't think so."

I keep my eyes on the screen. "He knows who I am. What I am. I'm sure he has some idea of what's about to go down."

Zeb finishes the thought for me.

"We're not waiting around for anyone's permission, are we?"

A corner of my mouth tightens.

"Good," Zeb nods once. "Glad we cleared that up."

He turns the car onto the next street, the city lights sliding across the windshield in long streaks of light and shadow.

"Because I'm in."

Of course he is.

"Ride or die," I mutter under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

Zeb huffs out a quiet laugh. "Damn straight."

I tap the call icon. "Then it's time to get this show on the road."

The line connects on the first ring.

"Took you long enough," Owen's voice crackles through the tablet speaker, sharp and slightly distorted by whatever dozen systems he's got running in the background. "Tell me you're almost there."

Even through the static, the sound of his voice settles something deep inside my chest.

The cavalry.
 

Or at least the closest thing I've ever had to one. 

The three of us have always worked best like this—on our own.

Ben likes to joke that there are two sides to the team, and he's right.

Ben, Dominick, Mason, and now Lucas. 

The White Knights, 
as Owen dubbed them
.

The ones with the shiny résumés—former military, law enforcement. The kind of men who've spent their whole lives protecting people by following rules and taking orders.

Then there's us.

The Black Knights.

Zeb. Owen. Me.

The three of us didn't come to Offset Tactical through medals or commendations. 

We came from prison. 

Criminals with a particular set of skills that made us useful to the team... but also unpredictable enough to drive both Ben and Dominick out of their damn minds. The kind of dangerous you only appreciate when it's aimed at the people threatening your family or clients—not so much when you're the boss trying to keep it under control.

Owen, with his genius-level hacking skills. 

Zeb, with his uncanny ability to break into—or out of—just about damn near anything.

And then there's me.

The guy they call when someone needs a problem handled the hard way. 

With muscles. And fists. And force.

We were the men Ben pulled out of the gutter for the purpose of exploiting and molding those questionable skills into weapons they could use to fight for the greater good. 

And somewhere along the way, the three of us became something more than teammates.

Bonded by shared experience—and a mutual distrust of the black-and-white thinking Ben and the others cling to—we became something closer. 

Like brothers. 

The kind that don't ask questions when things get ugly. 

The kind that walk straight into the fire to watch your back without you even asking, no matter the cost.

"We're still twenty minutes out," I answer.

"Good." Typing clatters rapidly in the background. "Because Bastille's head of cybersecurity must be a paranoid schizophrenic based on the mess he's made of this system. The fact that I'm still working to find a way in is downright embarrassing."

Zeb snorts. "Guy is a major player in an international sex trafficking ring, among other things," he says. "Did you expect he'd leave the front door of his network wide open for you?"

"Not the front door," Owen grumbles. "But perhaps a side window. Or a small crack in the foundation. No matter, though. I'm making my own way in."

"What else do we know?" Zeb asks.

Owen exhales into the mic. "Exterior cameras everywhere. Street level, alley, loading dock. Even the roof access on Bastille's building is locked down with two separate security layers. Oh—and armed security. Because that's not overkill," he mumbles that last part.

"Fun times," I add with a frustrated sigh.

Zeb nods, taking a second to absorb the information. Then his eyes flick quickly to the tablet. 

"Nah. Like Owen said, we'll just make our own way in. So... fearless hacker—god of all things blink and ping—in your expert opinion, what's our best play?"

A short pause.

Then Owen laughs quietly. "Honestly? Easiest might also be the most fun. Roof access."

Zeb glances at me, a wide smile spreading across his face.

"Hear that?" he says. "With the leash off, the Black Knights finally get to do what we do best."

I can't help it. A chuckle slips out before I can stop it. 

"Blow shit up, rules be damned," I add, repeating the unofficial motto of our rogue little crew—something that's gotten us into trouble more times than I can count. 

Figures. 

Only these two could make me laugh at a time like this.

"Got that right," Zeb says quickly. 

At the same time, Owen pipes in, "Hell yeah."

Then, without missing a beat, Zeb's photographic, problem-solving brain gets to work.

"Roof it is then. Already mapped it out in my head. Office building next door. Six stories taller. You get us control of those cameras, loop the feed, and we'll rappel our way down. Then in through the roof access door."

I pull up the satellite view Owen included in the intel files.

Sure enough.

Two buildings. Side by side. One towering slightly above the other.

The turn signal chimes as Zeb turns down another street, the high-rise buildings crowding around us, making everything feel claustrophobic.

Owen hums thoughtfully. "Door's reinforced steel, though. Old school. No tech means no way for me to help you."

Zeb smiles faintly. "Then it's a good thing I came prepared."

I lean back slightly in the seat, watching the building layouts shift across the screen as Owen pulls up additional security specs.

"What's the status of the interior cameras?" I ask.

Owen sighs. "Still locked out."

My jaw tightens.

"But I'm working on it," he adds quickly. "Bastille's firewall is layered like a damn onion."

"I suggest you peel faster," Zeb says calmly.

Owen chuckles. "Yeah, yeah."

The car turns onto a wider avenue. Across the skyline ahead of us, a familiar building rises above the others.

Tall.

Dark.

And unmistakably expensive.

I lean forward slightly. "That it?"

Zeb follows my gaze.

The corner of his mouth tightens.

"Yep."

So there it is. Victor Bastille's club. 

And somewhere inside that building, my Annelly is waiting.

This is it.

Time for war.

❤️

 
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Chapter 32

James

The door to the rooftop shuts quietly behind us, the sound swallowed instantly by the wind.

Cold air hits hard—sharper up here—cutting through the dark layers I’m wearing as I step onto the gravel-lined surface and take in the skyline stretching in every direction. Manhattan glows all around us. Endless lights. Endless motion.

And just beyond the edge—

There.

Victor Bastille’s club sits beneath us like a dark monument, all glass and steel and quiet menace. Ten stories tall. Looking untouchable.

It isn’t.

Not tonight. Not with me standing here. And not while she’s in there waiting for me to find her. To end this.

I move closer to the ledge, boots crunching softly against the gravel, and stop just short of the drop. Six stories down from where we stand, the roof of his building waits beneath us.

Close enough to reach.

Far enough to kill you if something goes wrong.

Zeb steps up beside me, his gaze sweeping the distance, already calculating angles, distance—variables I don’t have the patience for right now.

“Six floors above his ten,” he mutters. “Good line of sight. Clean descent if we keep it tight.”

I don’t weigh in.

My focus stays locked on the building across from us, scanning for movement. For anything that might compromise the plan. From up here, there’s no visibility inside—no way to see what’s waiting for us beyond that roof-access door.

But even out here, the bass carries.

Low. Steady.

A pulse I can feel in my chest as much as I can hear it—the muffled rhythm of music and bodies moving below.

Alive.

Unaware.

Not that any of that matters.

Because she’s in there. I can feel it.

Somewhere beneath that roof. Behind those walls. Close enough that if I close my eyes, I can almost convince myself I feel the warmth of her skin calling out for me.

My hands curl into fists at my sides before I force them open again, flexing my fingers like I can physically shake the tension out of them.

The time to act will come.

But it’s not yet.

Beside me, Zeb drops his pack and unzips it with practiced efficiency. Rope. Harnesses. Hardware. Everything laid out with precise, methodical care.

“Let’s get set up,” he says.

I pull myself back from the edge and grab my own gear, forcing my breathing to steady as I drop to one knee and start checking straps, clips, and lines. My fingers move through the motions automatically—tightening, adjusting, testing—something to anchor me. Something to hold on to.

Control.

That’s what this is.

Control now… so I don’t lose it later.

Control now… so I don’t feel the waiting pressing in like a vice around my throat.

The soft crackle of the comms in my ear comes through a second before Owen’s voice cuts in.

“Please tell me you’re not already dangling off the side of that building,” he says dryly. “Because I know you assholes. The second I step away, you two idiots start competing to see who can get themselves killed first. Or arrested.”

Zeb snorts under his breath as he secures an anchor point near the edge. “Relax, princess. We just got here.”

“Good,” Owen mutters. “Let’s try to pretend we have some semblance of common sense. At least until I crack this thing.”

I don’t look up from where I’m tightening the straps on my harness. “Sitrep. We need those eyes, Owen.”

Keys clatter rapidly on the other end—fast, precise, relentless. I can picture him hunched over his desk back in Ruby Creek, screens lit up around him, fingers flying like his life depends on it.

“Still working through Bastille’s last security layer,” he says. “Guy built this system like he’s expecting a full-scale cyberattack at any moment. It’s… honestly offensive.”

Zeb huffs out a laugh. “Thought you were a genius.”

“ Thought you were a genius ,“ Owen shoots back in a mocking voice. “Is that any way to talk to the man responsible for keeping your ass out of the fire? Keep it up, and I may just walk you right into a stray bullet. Just for funsies.”

Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitches.

That’s the thing about us.

Doesn’t matter how bad it gets—how close things come to going sideways—we don’t lose this. The rhythm. The camaraderie. The way we move with each other, no matter how hard things get.

“Time check,” Zeb says as he threads the rope through his descender.

“Two-oh-two,” Owen answers immediately. “Club closes at four a.m., which gives you just under two hours before things start thinning out.”

“Less,” I cut in. My fingers tighten briefly on the strap before I force them to keep moving. “We move before that. We need the crowd. Cover. Noise. Chaos. Without it, we’re exposed the second we step inside.”

“Agreed,” Owen says.

Zeb nods once. “Then it’s settled. We don’t wait.”

A brief pause settles over the line as we continue prepping the gear—the quiet filled only by the scrape of metal, the pull of rope, and the steady rhythm of Owen’s typing in my ear.

“Hey,” Owen says after a second, his voice shifting just enough to cut through everything else. “Before we go full-on war mode…”

My hands still on the strap I’m tightening, my heart rate suddenly spiking at the change in his tone.

“Tyler?” His name comes out rough. Too quick. Too close to panic.

“Tyler’s fine,” Owen says immediately. “Or… the same as when you left him. No change, which—according to my deep dive into subdural hematomas—is actually a good thing. His body and brain need the rest.”

Something in my chest loosens—just a fraction.

But it’s enough.

I drag in a slow breath, holding it for a second before letting it out.

“Good,” I say, my voice thicker than I’d like.

“What about Dominick?” Zeb asks casually, like he’s asking about the weather.

Owen lets out a quiet huff of amusement. “Alive. And pissing everyone off as usual. Hospital staff keep threatening to tie him down and sedate him.”

Zeb glances at me, a grin tugging at his mouth. “So he’s miserable?”

“Completely,” Owen confirms.

A short breath leaves me—something close to a laugh. “Yeah,” I mutter, glancing back at Zeb. “You were right. That does make me feel better.”

For a second, things almost feel normal again.

Like this is any other job.

Like we’re not standing on the edge of something that could go very, very wrong… something that could cost me yet another person I love.

But then the wind shifts—brutal and cold—and my gaze drifts back to the building across from us.

And just like that—

The moment’s gone.

“Where are we with those eyes, Owen?” I ask, all business again. “We’re running out of time.”

On the other end of the line, Owen exhales. “Yeah… yeah. Almost there.”

More typing. Faster now.

Zeb finishes threading his line and gives it a sharp tug, testing the tension before moving on to the next anchor point. “So what is it?” he asks. “What bad news were you about to drop on us?”

Owen doesn’t miss a beat. “Ben moved up the timeline.”

My hands still on the carabiner I’m locking into place.

Zeb’s head lifts slightly. “Meaning?”

“They’re already in the air.”

I go still.

“Who’s ‘they’?” Zeb asks, even though we both already know.

“Ben. Lucas. And…” A beat. “The FBI.”

The carabiner in my hand clicks shut a little harder than I intended.

Of course they are.

Fucking ridiculous.

“How could he?” Zeb says, feigning annoyance as a slow, knowing grin spreads across his face. “It’s almost like he doesn’t trust us.”

“Well…” Owen drawls, “you assholes are kind of predictable.”

Despite everything, a faint smirk pulls at my mouth.

“So how much time do we have?” Zeb asks.

“An hour. Maybe less if they push it.”

Zeb lets out a slow breath, his gaze flicking briefly toward the building across from us before returning to his gear. “That’s… not ideal.”

“No,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “It’s not.”

Because once they get here, everything changes.

The FBI takes over.

And Annelly?

She becomes secondary.

Another piece of evidence. Another victim in a much bigger case.

And then it’s all about protocols. Procedure. That black-and-white thinking that cares more about building a case than protecting the people caught inside it.

My jaw tightens.

“We need to move,” I say, the urgency cutting sharper now. “Right now. Before they land.”

Before they can stop us.

Zeb studies me for half a second—measuring, weighing—before giving a single, decisive nod.

“Yeah,” he says. “We do. But not without eyes. We need a status, Owen.”

Owen exhales quietly through the comms. “Yeah, yeah. One sec. Almost there.”

Keys hammer faster on the other end, the sound sharp and frantic now.

“There. I’m in,” he mutters. “And just like that—the genius saves the day. Try to contain your amazement, Zeb . Now hold on—pulling feeds… rerouting… give me a second…”

The tablet in my hand flickers to life.

Static.

Black.

Then a camera feed snaps into place.

Grainy. Angled. Exterior view. Alleyway.

“Owen…” I growl. He knows damn well this isn’t what I want to see.

“Working through them,” he says unapologetically, fully locked into the task now. “Hang on—hang on…”

The feed switches.

Front lobby.

Then the club—bodies moving, lights flashing, music pulsing. Even up here, I can feel the bass vibrating through the air.

Another flicker.

Hallways. One after another. Some empty. Some crowded. Some lined with security.

Then—

Another shift.

“Third floor,” Owen says.

My grip tightens around the tablet.

Too tight.

The image glitches—pixelates—then stabilizes again as I force myself to breathe through the adrenaline flooding my system.

In.

Out.

Owen moves us through the efficiency apartments one by one. Angles shifting. Feeds jumping as he tracks camera to camera.

And then—

Everything inside me stops.

There.

She’s on the screen.

For a second, my brain doesn’t process it. Doesn’t understand what I’m seeing.

Because it doesn’t make sense.

Because it can’t be real.

She’s—

My breath leaves me in a sharp, broken exhale.

“No…” The word barely makes it out.

She’s tied to the bed. Wrists bound above her head. Her body—

Jesus Christ.

Bare. Exposed.

Her face—

Swollen.

Marked.

Like someone’s—

My vision tunnels.

Red bleeds in at the edges.

Sound drops out.

Everything narrows to that screen.

To her.

“James—” Zeb’s voice cuts through, sharp and insistent, but it’s too late.

I’m already moving.

The tablet slips from my hand, clattering against the gravel as I surge to my feet, my body locking onto one singular objective—

Get to her.

Now.

Help her.

Save her.

A hand slams into my chest. Hard. Unyielding.

Zeb.

“Don’t, James.”

I shove against him. “Move.”

“Not like this.”

“She’s hurt—she needs me.”

“I know,” he snaps. “But if you go in like this—blind, out of control—you’ll get us all killed. Her included.”

My chest heaves, every muscle in my body pulled so tight it feels like I’m about to break apart from the inside out.

In our ears, Owen’s voice cuts back in, urgent now.

“He’s right, James. That floor is heavily guarded. You go in now, you’re done. You won’t even make it to her before this whole operation blows.”

I hear him.

I do.

But all I see is her.

All I feel is the need to tear that building apart with my bare hands just to get to her.

Zeb steps in closer, his grip shifting to my shoulders—firm, unrelenting.

“Look at me.”

I don’t.

I can’t.

“James.”

Something in his tone—desperate yet unshakable—finally cuts through the noise.

My gaze snaps to his.

“You want her out?” he says. “You want to save her? Then we do this right. We go in when we’re ready. That’s the only way she walks out of there alive.”

My jaw clenches so hard it aches.

Every instinct in me is screaming to ignore him. To move. To act. To burn this whole fucking place to the ground if that’s what it takes.

But he’s right.

And I can’t afford to get this wrong.

Not this time.

Not when it’s her life on the line.

A ragged breath tears from my chest as I drag a hand through my hair, forcing myself to think. To focus. To rein the monster back in.

Zeb doesn’t take his eyes off me as he speaks into the comms. “Hit me with it, Owen. What’s the play?”

“I’m pulling more feeds,” Owen says quickly. “Looking for blind spots, rotation gaps, security posts. Working it into the schematics now. I’ll have the three best possible entry options for you in two minutes.”

I don’t respond.

I can’t.

Because my eyes are back on the tablet.

Even though the screen has gone dark, I can still see her there.

Tied up. Exposed. Hurt.

And now that I’ve seen what that man has done to the woman I love—

There’s no version of this where Victor Bastille walks out of this alive.

For the first time…

I don’t try to silence the monster.

I let it breathe.

❤️

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# Chapter 33

Annelly

Time doesn't move in here. It lingers. Stretches. Slows until every second presses in, tightening the pressure in my chest.

I stare at the ceiling, my vision fixed on a faint crack running through the gold-leaf design and plasterwork, as if it might give me some sign that time is passing... that somehow, in the end, everything will turn out okay.

It doesn't help.

Nothing does.

The air feels thin, yet heavy in a way that makes it hard to breathe, like the room itself is holding its breath along with me.

Waiting.

For him.

A shiver runs through me, though I don't know if it's from the cold, the fear, or the way my body aches from being forced into the same position for God knows how long this time.

I try not to move. Not to think. 

But the silence leaves too much room for both.

My throat tightens as my gaze drifts from the ceiling, unfocused now, my thoughts slipping somewhere else—somewhere safer. Somewhere I'm not sure I should let myself go.

But I can't stop it.

James.

His name moves through me like a breath I didn't realize I was holding, and just like that, the room fades away, pulling me back to the cabin.

Warmth. 

A safe kind of stillness.

The quiet hum of the fireplace. The soft creak of the floor beneath our feet. The way the world outside felt distant—like the danger couldn't touch us there.

The way 
he
 looked at me. 

Like I was something worth fighting for. Something worth changing for.

My throat tightens as a tear slips free, the memory settling deep—sharp and aching all at once.

He fought so hard to get there. To let me in. To believe he could be more than the man his past tried to make him. That he could love me despite the risk. And most of all... that he deserved to be loved.

The burn behind my eyes breaks before I can stop it, tears slipping silently down my temples into my hair.

During one of our worst fights, he told me he could never be my knight in shining armor, no matter how badly he wished he could be. 

And he was both right and wrong all at once. 

Because he's something darker. Stronger. Something more dangerous than a knight—because he's not driven by duty... but by love.

My eyes close briefly as more tears slip free.

"He's not my knight," I whisper, my breath catching. "He's my dark prince."

And I know, deep down in the marrow of my bones, that he's coming for me.

The thought settles into me, warm and steady, giving me something to hold on to in a place that's trying to strip me of everything—especially hope.

He's coming.

I cling to those two words, letting them fill the cracks inside me, letting them soften the edges of the fear clawing through my chest.

But then reality pushes back in. 

Cold. Unforgiving. 

Because hope doesn't change where I am or the circumstances I'm in. It doesn't change what's coming. And it sure as hell won't save me if I just lie here and wait.

A shaky breath leaves me as my eyes open again, the ceiling coming back into focus—that same unmoving crack staring down at me like it was put there to watch me... to torture me.

No. I have to get out of here.

My fingers curl slowly against the restraints, testing the give for what feels like the hundredth time, the leather biting into my skin as I shift my wrists, searching for anything I might have missed.

Pain flares instantly, but this time... I don't pull away. This time, I lean into it.

My jaw tightens, breath hitching as I twist my wrist just a fraction further, ignoring the way the burn sharpens, the way my skin protests as the edge digs deeper.

"Come on... come on," I whisper, the words barely more than air.

The straps don't budge, and for a second, doubt creeps back in.

What if this is it?

What if I can't get free?

What if—

No.

My eyes squeeze shut, a frustrated breath tearing from my chest as I shove the thoughts down before they can take root. Because I refuse to lie here like some victim, waiting for him to come back and—

My stomach turns violently at the thought, bile rising fast in the back of my throat.

No.

Absolutely not. That is not happening.

Something hardens inside me then. Not fear. Not panic.

Anger.

At him. At this. At the way he thinks he can break me—like I'll eventually give in.

My fingers flex again, more deliberate now, more focused as I adjust the angle of my wrist and pull—slow, controlled—testing the edge of the restraint instead of fighting it outright.

The leather bites deeper.

My breath stutters. 

But I don't stop.

Because I can feel it.

The smallest shift.

Barely there—but enough.

Hope flickers. Dangerous. Fragile. But real.

A quiet, disbelieving sound catches in my throat as I try again—harder this time, faster—turning my hand to increase the pressure, to create space where there wasn't any before.

Pain shoots up my arm, but I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out, the metallic taste of blood blooming across my tongue.

Again and again, I keep at it. My pulse roars in my ears as the leather continues to give, the strap sliding against my skin in a way it hadn't before.

"God... please," I whimper, the words breaking as I force myself to keep going.

Don't stop, Annelly.
 

Don't think about the pain. 

Just fight through it. 

Keep going.

And then—

My hand slips free.

A sharp gasp rips from my throat as my arm drops, numb and useless at my side, pins and needles exploding through my fingers as circulation rushes back all at once.

For a second, I can't move. Can't think. All I can do is feel.

The pain. The relief. The shock of it.

I'm free.

My head tips forward, breath coming fast and uneven as I stare at my hand like I can't quite believe it. But it's real.

I did it.

A shaky breath leaves me as I drag my arm up, wincing as sensation crashes through it in waves.

"Okay..." I whisper, forcing the word through the haze. "Okay. You're not done."

One down.

Now the rest.

My hand shakes as I reach across my body, fingers clumsy and unsteady as I fumble with the restraint on my other wrist. The leather on this side feels tighter now. More unforgiving. Like it knows I'm trying to get away, and it's resisting me.

"Come on..." I breathe, my voice barely holding together as I work at the buckle, my fingers slipping twice before I finally catch it.

The clasp gives, and I yank my arm free with a sharp exhale, pain shooting through my shoulder as my arm drops, the sudden release almost worse than being bound.

For a second, I just sit there, both arms free, my chest rising too fast, too shallow as I fight through the sensations crashing through me.

Pins and needles.

Fire.

Relief.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to stay present, to keep my bearings even as my body struggles to catch up.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Now move.

I sit up, wasting no time, reaching for the restraints at my ankles—working faster, less careful, more desperate now that escape feels possible.

The first one comes loose. Then the second. 

And just like that, I'm completely free.

My legs don't cooperate when I try to stand. They tremble beneath me, weak and unsteady, forcing me to catch myself on the edge of the bed before I collapse.

"You can do this..." I whisper to myself. "You've got no choice, so go."

I push myself upright, every muscle protesting as I force them to find my balance. Instinctively, my fingers lift, brushing against my collarbone—searching until I feel it.

The pendant.

A sharp breath catches in my throat as my hand closes around it, the cool metal pressing into my palm.

For a second, everything else fades.

The pain.

The fear.

The danger.

All of it dulls at the edges as I cling to it, my eyes slipping shut as something steadier moves through me.

Him.

My James.

I can feel him—the warmth of his hands, the strength in the way he holds me, the quiet steadiness in his voice when everything inside me starts to fall apart.

"You're okay," I whisper, though I don't know if I'm talking to him... or to myself. "We're going to be okay."

He's coming. Of that, I am sure. But until he does, it's all up to me. 

I have to get out of here.

My eyes open. A more focused awareness sparks inside me as I release the pendant, letting it fall back against my chest. 

I turn away from the bed, my gaze sweeping the room—for the first time not as a prisoner, but as someone in control of their own fate. I turn in a slow circle, scanning for a closet, a dresser, a nightstand—anything that might hold something I could wear.

There's nothing.

Aside from the bed, the table, and chairs where we ate dinner, the room is empty.

Because of course it is.

A shaky breath leaves me as my gaze drops to my body, heat rising to my cheeks at the stark reminder of how naked and exposed I am—just as he intended.

Determined not to give him that satisfaction, I grab the sheet off the bed, yanking it free and wrapping it tightly around myself, twisting the fabric at my chest to hold it in place. It's thin—nowhere near enough to fight the chill of March in New York—but it will have to do.

The cold is nothing compared to staying here. 

Locked in this room. 

At his mercy.

Ready as I'll ever be, I move toward the door, each step careful despite the urgency surging through my blood. My hand hovers over the handle, my pulse loud in my ears as I listen.

Nothing.

But that doesn't mean it's safe.

Knowing how Victor operates, it's likely there are guards just outside. Watching. Waiting for this exact moment. 

I pull my hand back.

I can't risk it.

Instead, my gaze shifts to the windows.

As I move, I feel the low, steady vibration of music through the floor beneath my bare feet. Loud enough to remind me there's life downstairs, people who might be able to help if I could just reach them, but it's too much risk. Getting out unseen might be my only chance. 

My steps quicken as determination tightens through me.

The first window is locked. Sealed shut. No give, no matter how much force I use.

The second is the same.

A flicker of panic rises fast, but I force it down, pushing past it as I move faster now, checking the rest one after the other.

Come on.

There has to be something. There has to be a way out.

I reach the last window, my fingers curling around the latch, and my breath catches. Hope surges, sudden and bright, as my gaze drops to the edge of a metal railing.

A fire escape.

Relief hits so hard it almost knocks me off balance.

"Oh, thank God..."

I fumble with the latch, hands shaking as I try to get it open, my pulse racing now, adrenaline flooding every inch of me.

Almost. 

Please. I'm so close—

Behind me, the door slams open. 

The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot, ripping the breath from my lungs as I spin around to defend myself, but I'm too slow. 

He's already on me.

A hand fists into my hair, yanking me backward so hard a scream tears from my throat as I'm ripped away from the window, the world tilting violently as pain explodes across my scalp.

"Stupid cunt," Felix snarls, his grip tightening as he drags me across the room. "Thought you could run?"

My hands fly up instinctively, clawing at his wrist, but it's useless. He's too strong. Too solid. My bare feet scramble against the floor, slipping, catching, failing to find any kind of leverage as he hauls me back.

"Please—" I gasp, the word breaking apart as he twists my arm behind my back, forcing me down hard enough that my knees slam into the ground.

Pain shoots up my legs—through my shoulder.

"Shut up," he snaps, shoving me forward until my cheek slams into the floor.

The impact rattles through me, disorienting, my vision blurring as I try to breathe through the pain, but his weight crashes into me, pinning me in place.

"No more games, you little bitch," he growls into my ear, his voice thick with something dark and furious. "You don't get to move unless I say so."

My chest heaves against the floor, breath coming in sharp, broken pulls as I twist beneath him, struggling.

It does nothing.

His grip only tightens.

My heart pounds wildly as the reality of my situation crashes back in, heavier this time. 

I was so close. 

So damn close.

"Please," I choke, the word scraping raw against my throat. "Please, just—"

He doesn't hesitate.

Doesn't listen.

"Boss," he mutters, his voice shifting, and that's when I realize he's not talking to me.

My stomach drops.

"We got a problem," he says, tightening his hold on me as I freeze beneath him. "Want me to deal with it?"

A beat.

Silence.

Then—

His grip shifts, dragging me upright until my back hits his chest, his arm locking tight around me, trapping me there. 

Facing the door.

Waiting.

My pulse thunders in my ears, every second stretching thin as dread coils tighter in my chest. 

Because I know what's coming. 

My eyes flick toward the door, and for the first time since I was taken, real fear sinks all the way in.

Victor is coming.

And he's going to make me pay.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
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Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
You'll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 34

Annelly

Felix’s arm tightens across my chest, locking me in place as my back presses hard against him. My shoulder screams where he’s forced my arm up between us—twisted too far, too tight—the pain radiating down to my fingertips in sharp, blinding waves that make it hard to think, harder to breathe.

My gaze fixes on the door, my vision blurring as I fight to steady my breathing, but it’s useless. Every inhale catches in my throat, like my body knows what’s coming and is desperately bracing for it. My pulse pounds in my ears, each second stretching longer than the last as the room grows impossibly colder, until I’m trembling and can’t stop.

Please God, no.

Please don’t let this happen.

Please.

The words loop silently in my head. Desperate. Pointless. Because in the next breath, the handle turns.

The door opens.

And Victor steps inside.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak. He just closes the door behind him with a quiet click, then lifts his gaze and locks onto me.

Cold.

Controlled.

Taking everything in while simultaneously stripping away whatever fragile hope I had left.

My breath stutters as his eyes move slowly over me, missing nothing. Not reacting in any way that makes any sense.

No anger. No shock. Not even disappointment.

Just… calculation.

And a quiet, terrifying kind of focus.

“I warned you…” His voice is low, tone even.

Which, to my terrified ears, is worse than shouting. Worse than rage. It settles into me as he steps closer, unhurried, like there’s no need to rush when he already has me exactly where he wants me.

“Told you things would get much worse if you defied me again,” he continues softly. “And still… after everything I’ve already forgiven, you do this?”

My pulse spikes as he stops just in front of me, his hand lifting slowly.

I flinch on instinct, my body expecting the worst.

Instead, his fingers brush my cheek, still sore from where Felix slammed my face into the floor. His touch is light. Gentle as he traces down my face, his eyes following the movement like he’s memorizing the feel of my skin.

But then his grip tightens.

Sudden. Crushing.

Pain explodes through my jaw as a broken sound escapes me.

“Why do you make me hurt you?” he whispers, his thumb pressing harder, his voice threaded with something disturbingly close to hurt. “Why do you keep making me do this to you?”

His grip releases.

He steps back.

He gives a subtle nod, and before I can process it, Felix moves.

The first hit lands.

My head snaps to the side, the crack of it ringing through my skull as the world tilts violently. I don’t even feel the floor when I hit it—just the impact, the shock of it, the way the air is ripped clean from my lungs.

A strangled sound claws its way from my throat as I curl instinctively, folding in on myself, trying to protect myself the only way I can.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t help.

A second blow follows.

Then a third.

Then something harder. Deeper. A kick—I realize too late.

Pain explodes through my side, bright and blinding as my body jerks with the force of it. A broken gasp tears from me as my lungs refuse to work, refuse to pull in air no matter how hard I try.

I can’t breathe.

Stop—please.

The words don’t make it out because the hits keep coming.

Everything fractures.

Sound. Thought. Breath.

Movement registers dimly above me—Felix stepping back, space opening—but it doesn’t fully land. Not through the roaring in my ears. Not through the way my body is gasping, starved for air.

“Leave us.”

Victor’s voice.

Then footsteps.

The door closing.

And then silence.

Nothing but the ragged, choppy sound of my breathing.

Pain presses in from all sides. My body heaves against the floor as I fight for air that won’t come.

Something’s wrong.

The thought drifts slowly through my mind.

My side—heat spreads there, deep, fluid like, and all wrong. Nothing like any injury I’ve ever felt before.

The nausea hits next.

My stomach twists violently as the pain crests, my body convulsing under the force of it.

I press my cheek to the floor, desperate for something—anything—to anchor me. The cool surface cuts through the heat flooding my body, and that’s when I see it.

Red.

Drops scattered across the floor beneath me.

My blood.

A weak, broken sound leaves me, my throat too tight—too raw—to form anything real as the realization settles in.

Something inside me is very, very wrong.

The next thing I feel is his hand in my hair.

Cold.

His fingers slide through it slowly, parting the damp strands from my face as he crouches beside me, the movement almost… careful. Almost kind.

Revulsion surges through me. I try to pull away, but my body won’t cooperate—too heavy, too slow. Every attempt sends fresh pain tearing through my side.

“Why would you do this to yourself?”

His voice is soft. Disappointed. Like my lying here broken and bleeding is somehow my fault.

“Now get up.”

A broken breath leaves me as I try to push myself upright, to obey, but my arms tremble beneath me, unable to hold my weight before giving out.

I collapse back down with a strangled sound, the movement sending another wave of pain crashing through me so hard my vision whites out.

“Can’t…” The word barely makes it past my lips.

He exhales, a quiet huff of annoyance. Then, without warning, he releases my hair and shoves my head away. My cheek hits the floor again with a dull, disorienting thud.

“I said, get up. Now,” he demands, tone absolute.

But my body won’t listen. My limbs feel distant, foreign, unresponsive as another tremor works its way through me.

When nothing happens, he lets out a hard sigh.

Then he stands.

I hear the shift of fabric, the quiet movement of him stepping back, and when I force my eyes up, it’s just in time to see him shrug out of his suit jacket, his expression tightening slightly as he looks down at me.

“Damn it, Dove…” he mutters under his breath. “If you get blood on me, I swear to God…”

The threat hangs there.

Unfinished.

Unnecessary.

Because after all he’s done to me, I couldn’t care less about his suit—or his threats.

In the next breath, he’s lifting me from the ground, one arm around my back, the other beneath my knees.

I gasp as a searing ache tears through my side, my body folding weakly against him, but he doesn’t slow—doesn’t adjust to compensate for the pain I’m clearly in. He just carries me the few steps to the bed, like the state I’m in doesn’t matter. Like I’m nothing but an inconvenience.

He drops me onto the mattress. The impact knocks what little breath I had left clean out of me, my body jolting as I curl instinctively, arms pulling in tight in a useless attempt to protect myself from whatever he’s planning to do to me.

It doesn’t matter.

My body still won’t cooperate.

“None of that,” he says quietly as he pulls my hands back to my sides, my body giving in, not from obedience, but because it doesn’t have the strength to resist.

Then I feel the sheet. The thin fabric shifts from where it’s wrapped around me, his fingers catching it easily, tugging and pulling it away.

Cool air hits my skin, and I flinch. My arms trembling as I try to move—try to cover myself—but they won’t respond.

It’s useless.

His hands are already back on me.

Positioning.

Adjusting.

Turning me the way he wants.

My breath stutters as he moves me, each shift sending sharp flashes of pain through my side as he arranges me like I’m some doll. Like I’m nothing but an object. Something that belongs to him.

“I warned you,” he says, almost idly, like we’re continuing a conversation instead of… whatever this is. “Told you things would get infinitely worse if you kept pushing me.”

My pulse hammers, my chest rising unevenly as I stare at the ceiling, unable to look at him—unable to escape the humiliation crawling over my skin as I feel his eyes move over my naked body.

“And still… you refuse to listen. To learn your place in this relationship.”

A pause.

Then quieter. More certain. “I own you.”

No.

Never.

The refusal is there. Burning bright on the tip of my tongue, even as I can’t force the words past my lips.

The bed dips beside me, and I feel the weight of him there before I see him.

Then his hand is back again.

At my face.

Slow. Careful.

His thumb brushes beneath my eyes, catching the tears there, wiping them away with a gentleness that sends a shiver up my spine.

No.

Don’t touch me.

I turn my head, trying to pull away, but it’s no use. His fingers follow.

Persistent.

Unrelenting.

“Shh… there’s no need for that. No need to refuse what we both know is inevitable,” he murmurs softly.

My breath catches painfully as his hand trails down, following the line of my jaw, my throat—lingering there just long enough to make my stomach turn before continuing lower.

Tracing.

Claiming.

Every inch of it feels wrong.

Degrading.

Violating.

A tremor works through me as I try to shrink in on myself, to disappear from his touch—but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

His hand moves lower still.

Unhurried.

The contact makes something deep inside me recoil, my fingers curling weakly into the mattress as I fight the instinct to push him away—to fight back—to scream.

Because I know it won’t stop him.

That it will only make it worse.

The truth settles in, heavy and suffocating.

There’s nothing I can do.

“You see?” he says quietly, almost gently. “This doesn’t have to be so difficult.”

His voice softens further, smoothing out like he’s trying to convince me this is the version of him I should want. Like this is kindness. Like this is my reward for lying here broken and helpless.

My throat tightens, a fragile breath slipping out as I fix my gaze on the ceiling, refusing to look at him—refusing to give him anything more than what he’s already taking.

But I can still feel him.

Everywhere.

The weight of his hand.

The deliberate way he touches me.

The way he lingers.

Claiming.

“You fight me,” he continues, his breath warm against my ear. “And then you force me to correct you.”

A pause.

His hand stills.

Then moves again.

Lower.

A sharp tremor runs through me, panic surging through every part of me as I try to pull away. There isn’t any space.

“But it doesn’t have to always be like that,” he continues, his voice smoothing again. “You don’t have to make it hurt to get to the pleasure. I can be soft. You see? You only have to surrender to me.”

My chest rises sharply, something inside me tightening—resisting—even as the rest of me lies there, trapped and unresponsive beneath his hands.

No.

Never.

Like he senses my defiance, his hand stills. Then shifts. Rougher now. The change is immediate—his touch edged with violence as he squeezes, pinching hard enough to tear a cry from my throat.

My breath hitches, my body tensing as another broken sound slips past my lips despite my attempt to swallow it down. Tears spill freely now, silent and unstoppable.

He sees it.

The fear.

The breaking.

And something in his expression settles.

“There it is.” A quiet, satisfied smile pulls at his lips, like this is the moment he’s been waiting for. Like this is progress. “That’s better.”

My stomach turns.

No.

This can’t happen.

I can’t let this happen.

As if rewarding my reaction, his touch softens again, tracing slow, deliberate patterns as he leans closer—close enough that I feel the brush of his breath against my ear.

“This is how it works,” he says quietly. “You give in to me completely, and I’ll make it good for you. You resist…”

A pause.

The pressure returns.

Sharp. Punishing.

“And I correct you.”

My chest rises sharply, air catching, as I try to pull away—try to create even the smallest inch of space between us, but it’s no use. He won’t let me.

“And when you stop fighting…” he continues, his voice smoothing out again, almost approving, “when you finally understand that you belong to me…”

His touch softens once more.

Gentles.

Mocking in its restraint as he moves where he shouldn’t—touching what isn’t his.

“See? It doesn’t have to hurt.”

My vision blurs, the room tilting as what’s happening settles in—heavy, suffocating, inescapable.

A sob slips past my lips, my body recoiling even as he forcibly holds me in place.

My fingers curl into the bed beneath me, shaking now, the terror settling deep—rooting itself somewhere I know it will never fully leave.

I’ll never be the same after this.

The thought hits hard. And something inside me fractures with it. Tears slip silently into my hair as my gaze fixes on the ceiling, the crack in the plaster blurring as my vision dims. Fades. Slips.

And suddenly I’m back in the cabin.

Warmth. Light.

James’s arms around me. Holding me. Grounding me.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs softly. “I’ve got you, snowflake. I’ve got you.”

And I cling to those words.

To him.

To the only thing that still feels real.

Praying that when this is over… we’ll somehow find our way back to each other.

❤️

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# Chapter 35

James

The night air bites harder now. Cold enough to cut through the thick layers of my tactical gear. Cold enough that most people would feel it settling deep into their bones.

Not me.

All I feel is the tension. 

It hums through me, low and constant, coiled tight beneath the surface as I stand at the edge of the rooftop, eyes locked on the building across from us.

My jaw tightens as my focus drops back to the tablet, scanning the blueprints again, committing them to memory even though I already know every line, every corridor, every choke point by heart.

Owen's voice filters through the comm in my ear, calm and steady as he walks us through the same details for the third time.

"East side's still clear. Confirmed no security from the fourth-floor corridor up. Camera loop recordings are almost done."

"Copy," Zeb mutters from behind me.

I don't respond. I don't need to. 

Every part of me is locked in. Waiting. Determined to get the timing down to the second, so we go in clean. 

Quiet. No alarms. 

Take them apart from the inside before they even know we're there.

With just Zeb and me on entry—and Owen running overwatch from Ruby Creek—that's the only way this is going to work.

A faint crackle comes through my earpiece. Then— 

"Shit."

My spine goes rigid.

"What is it?" Zeb asks, stepping closer, eyes dropping to the tablet in my hand like it might give him answers.

It won't.

There's a beat. Then—

"She's moving."

Everything inside me stills.

"Meaning what?" The words scrape out, low and rough, the 
Reaper
 pressing hard at the edges of my control.

Owen exhales softly, like he's adjusting something on his end. "Stand by—"

Static flickers. Then—

"Fuck. She's got herself free."

For a split second, the world tilts.

My pulse slams hard once, twice, before something sharp and electric cuts through my chest.

Hope.

Fast. Dangerous. Blinding.

"She got free?" Zeb asks, incredulous.

"Looks like it," Owen confirms. "She's moving toward—wait—"

I'm already shifting, body angling toward the rappel point, every instinct in me snapping into motion.

This is it.

This is our chance.

"Say the word," Zeb says behind me. "We go now—"

"No. Wait." Owen's voice snaps in my ear, rooting me to the spot.

"Why? What's happening?" I bite out.

He hesitates.

Too damn long. 

Then finally— 

"There are guards outside her room. Victor's head of security among them. She's going to get caught."

"All the more reason to move—" 

"No," Owen fires back, effectively cutting me off. "You go in now, you won't make it. I'm finding you a clear path—just give me a goddamn second."

I hear typing in the background. Fast. Furious.

Then—

"Fuck. Door just opened." 

My stomach drops the second those words leave his mouth.

"Felix. He's going in after her. The other two are still in the hall."

The words hit like a physical blow. The movement I'd already started halts mid-step, my body going still as something cold and violent settles in my chest.

Across from me, the building doesn't change. No alarms. No movement. No sign of what's happening inside.

But I know.

And it's why I need to get the hell in there.

Now.

"She tried to fight back," Owen continues, his voice tightening just a fraction. "He's got her. He's restraining—"

My hands curl into fists at my sides, the leather of my gloves creaking under the pressure.

Breathe. 

Focus.

We knew this could happen. 

We planned for it.

We—

"Victor's on the move." Owen cuts in again. "Headed upstairs."

Zeb swears under his breath.

But me...

I don't say a word. 

I just stand there, staring at that building like I can see through the walls. Like I can reach her if I look hard enough. Like I can somehow protect her from whatever's coming.

"Talk to me, Owen," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "What's happening—and while you're at it, find me a way in."

"Working on it," he mutters.

A second later, he curses under his breath.

"He's got her on the floor."

I close my eyes. 

Just for a second. 

Not to shut it out, but to lock it down. To force the rage boiling inside me back under control before it takes over.

"Get me in there, Owen. Now." 

A beat.

"She's fighting him."

Of course she is.

My chest tightens, something sharp cutting through me at the thought. I can see it without seeing it—her refusing to give in, refusing to break. 

Even now. Even there.

My brave fucking girl.

But she shouldn't have to fight for her freedom alone. 

"Enough, Owen." My voice hardens. "Just get me the fuck inside."

I shift my stance, my body already angling toward the drop.

"I'm going after her," I add, quieter. More dangerous. "With or without your help."

I don't wait for a response.

I move.

Two steps and I'm at the edge, already reaching for the line, fingers locking around the rope as I anchor in, muscle memory taking over. 

Harness. 

Clip. 

Check.

Done.

Before I can swing my leg over, Zeb's hand clamps down on my shoulder.

"James, stop."

"Move," I tell him, already shifting my weight forward, preparing to drop.

His grip tightens.

"Not like this."

That does it.

I turn on him, the restraint I've been holding onto by a thread snapping tight beneath my skin.

"This is exactly how it's happening. How it has to happen."

"She's not alone in there," Zeb shoots back, low and sharp. "You go in without overwatch, you're dead before you hit the third floor."

My gaze flicks to the building. Then back to him.

"Then I go in fast."

"Fast gets you killed," Owen cuts in.

"Waiting gets her hurt. Or worse."

The words land hard between us. For a second, no one moves.

The night presses in around us. The city below nothing but distant noise and empty space.

"Look," Owen says finally. "I've got a potential path. It won't be pretty. We'll probably hit resistance, but it's your best shot if you go now."

My response is immediate. "I'll take it. No matter the risk." 

Zeb exhales slowly, his hand finally dropping from my shoulder.

"Fine," he says. "We go together—"

"No." The word cuts clear between us. 

His eyes flash. "The hell we don't—"

"I need you here."

That stops him cold. 

I step in closer, lowering my voice—not because I'm unsure, but because this matters too much to say any other way.

"If I don't make it—if something goes sideways—she still needs someone to save her."

Zeb's jaw tightens. "Tell me you're not planning to fail."

"I'm not." My voice stays steady. Controlled. "But nothing is guaranteed. You know that. Not on an op like this."

Silence swallows us whole.

I hold his gaze, letting him see it—every calculation I've already run through in my head, every outcome I've already accepted.

"She doesn't get left in there," I say quietly. "Not if I go down. Not if this blows up. You get to her. You save her. You finish it."

Zeb shakes his head, like he can reject the reality just by refusing to accept it. "Fuck that. 
We
 finish it."

"Fine. 
We
," I allow, even as I know that might not be an option. "But if I don't make it—"

His expression turns dangerous. "Don't you dare fucking say it." 

His threat doesn't stop me.

"If I don't make it, then it's up to you." I step closer, closing the distance between us. "Right here. Right now—you promise me. No hesitation. No waiting for backup. You burn the whole fucking place down if you have to... but you get her out. You get her safe."

The words hang there.

Ugly. Final.

Necessary.

For a second, I think he's going to push back. But then something shifts.

Understanding.

Acceptance.

"Alright," he says quietly. "You've got my word."

I nod once. Then I reach for him.

He doesn't hesitate.

Our hands clasp, and I pull him in—quick, tight. Not for comfort. Not for reassurance.

For acknowledgment.

For trust.

I release him before it lingers too long. Before either of us gives in to the weight of it—the goodbye this could be.

Turning away, I keep my eyes off him, locking everything down. Burying it deep so I can focus on what needs to be done.

The edge waits.

I grip the line. 

Swing a leg over.

And drop.

❤️

 
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👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

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"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 36

James

The second I step into the third-floor stairwell, I feel it.

The air here is tighter. The walls more contained. Like the space itself is watching. Waiting. Trying to keep me out.

I flatten against the wall just inside the access corridor, every muscle locked as a pair of boots echoes somewhere in the distance, measured and unhurried, the sound cutting clean through the low hum of the building.

Definitely not a guest.

Security.

“Hold,” Owen murmurs in my ear.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

The footsteps grow closer, rounding the corner just beyond my line of sight. A shadow stretches across the floor first, long and distorted beneath the overhead lights. Then the man follows, hand resting on the gun holstered at his waist, eyes sweeping the corridor with practiced precision.

My pulse steadies instead of spiking. One calm beat. Then the next.

This is what I’m trained for.

Operating in that razor-thin space where adrenaline sharpens instead of clouds. Where instinct takes over and hesitation doesn’t exist.

I stay with it. Let it settle. Let it focus me.

Then I listen as he keeps moving, the sound of his boots fading gradually as he disappears down the hall.

“Clear in three,” Owen says. “Two… one. Move.”

I push off the wall and slip through the door, slowing just long enough to ease it shut behind me without a sound.

Fast. Silent. Leaving nothing to chance.

Every step is deliberate as I cross the corridor and move into the next hall. Doors line both sides, identical and closed, hiding whatever’s happening behind them. The sound of voices drifts faintly through the walls.

Laughter. Music. And something heavier beneath it.

Debauchery.

Club guests, no doubt, continuing the party upstairs.

The normalcy of it grates. The world carrying on in good fun while there’s so much wrong hidden within these walls feels criminal.

“Camera loop is holding,” Owen continues. “You’re clear for now, but watch the next turn. On the right, you’ve got two civilians making out against the wall.”

He pauses.

“Damn… they’re really going at it,” he adds with a chuckle. “Just look like you belong, and they probably won’t even notice you.”

I slow just enough to check the corner, catching sight of them—a man in a suit, and a scantily clad woman pressed against the wall, her legs wrapped tight around his waist.

Oblivious.

I move past them without a word.

Sure enough, it’s like I’m not even there.

“Good. Keep going.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

I move with purpose, following the layout mapped in my head. Every turn, every corridor lined up exactly as I remember. Every step pulling me closer to her.

“Do me a favor and stop there. Possible bogeys headed your way.”

I slow at the edge of the next intersection, pressing back into the wall as footsteps approach, heavier this time. More than one set.

“Two guards,” Owen confirms. “Coming from your left. You’ve got about four seconds. See the door across from you? It’s unlocked. I suggest you get inside. Quick.”

Sure enough, the card reader blinks from red to green.

I don’t hesitate. I cross the hall in silence and slip through the door, closing it carefully behind me, sealing myself inside one of the apartments.

It’s lived in. But empty.

Thank Christ.

I brace against the wall, listening as the guards pass, their voices low and muffled as they move by, completely unaware of the intruder just feet away.

“James,” Owen says, his voice threaded with something I can’t quite read. “Good news, you’re clear. Bad news… Victor’s escalating. We need to speed this up.”

My jaw tightens.

Escalating?

“Meaning what?” I whisper, the edge in my voice impossible to miss. “Speak plainly.”

“Just focus, and get back out there. I told you I’d get you to her, and I will.”

A cold, jagged pressure settles deep in my chest, and when I push off the wall, every step comes faster. Harder. More deliberate.

“Hall is clear. Keep going.”

I take the turn without slowing, my focus narrowing with every step forward.

Suddenly, all I can think about is her.

What he could be doing to her.

What I might already be too late to stop.

“Owen… I need to know. Is he hurting her?” The question scrapes on the way out. I’m just as desperate for the answer as I am terrified of it.

“James.” His tone shifts, firmer now. “You’ll be with her soon enough. Keep your head in the game.”

There’s a beat. Then, lighter—

“That annoyingly smug head of yours. Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a bigger-than-average-sized head?”

I don’t take the bait. Not this time.

Because beneath the humor, I hear it.

The strain.

This is him holding the line… to protect me.

I drag in a slow breath, forcing the surge of uncomfortable feelings down. Forcing everything back into place.

It’s only recently that I’ve allowed people to get this close. Close enough to see the cracks. To step in. To carry some of the burden. For Tyler. For me. And now, after everything this team has done for us… it’s overwhelming.

Focus, James. Lock it down and think only of her.

Annelly.

She fucking needs you.

I look ahead and everything in me stills.

“Owen…”

“I know. I see you.” The rapid clatter of his typing fills my ear. “Okay. Next door on your right. Step into the alcove. And wait.”

I follow without hesitation, slipping into position as I keep my voice low. “How many?”

“Three stationed outside. That asshole Felix and two others.”

My gaze fixes on the hallway ahead.

“And Victor?”

A breath stretches too long.

“Where do you think?”

Fuck.

I already knew.

But knowing and seeing are two different things.

And being this close to that door, to her, and knowing he’s in there alone with her…

It hits differently.

Something violent surges through me. My muscles tighten around it, barely containing the energy coiling beneath my skin.

Adrenaline, clawing for release.

“I need them gone.”

“On it,” Owen replies. “Working up a diversion. Give me a sec.”

His typing picks up, faster now, more aggressive.

“Alright, here’s what I’ve got. I can trigger a fire alarm on the first floor—east kitchen. Furthest point from you, so it should stay contained enough that the apartments don’t hear it. It’ll pull security down to clear that area. But it’s not without risk. FDNY will show, and once they’re on site, things get harder to control.”

“How long before they realize it’s a false alarm?”

“Two to five minutes before they arrive. Fifteen to thirty after that, before they call it.” A pause. “Which means your window is tight. You go in, incapacitate Bastille, and you get her out. Fast. Or the two of you will get caught.”

“No pressure then,” I mutter on a rough exhale.

“None at all. Like a walk in the park.”

I take a second, not to think, but to steady myself. To lock everything away until there’s nothing left in my head but the mission.

“Do it.”

A second passes.

Then somewhere below us, an alarm cuts through the building, distant but unmistakable. Even muffled by the floors between us, it’s enough.

The reaction is immediate.

The two outer guards snap to attention, heads turning toward the stairwell where the sound is coming from.

Felix doesn’t move. He tilts his head slightly, listening. Assessing. His posture tightens just enough to give him away before his hand comes up, tapping the comm in his ear.

“Here we go,” Owen murmurs. “You’ll be relieved to know I was right. Victor hasn’t moved, which means he can’t hear it. He’s completely oblivious… and so is everyone else on that floor.”

Good.

Fewer eyes. Fewer problems.

One of the guards shifts. “You want us to check that?”

Felix doesn’t answer right away. I can almost see the calculation happening behind his eyes. Then—

“Go,” he says. “Both of you. Check it out and get back to me. Coms are down, so tell anyone you see to use their phones.”

In my ear, Owen lets out a quiet, satisfied laugh. Clearly, communications being down is all part of his diversion.

The two guards move immediately, boots echoing as they head toward the stairs, disappearing from view within seconds.

Felix stays. His posture loose, but the tension is there now, coiled through his shoulders.

He knows something’s off.

He just doesn’t know what.

“James,” Owen says, all business now. “Better get a move on. And remember, no body count.”

My brows pull together at that.

“Copy,” I murmur, even as every instinct in me pushes back against the idea of letting any of these bastards walk away scot-free after what they’ve done.

I step forward. Slow at first. Silent. Each step deliberate as I close the distance, staying tight to the wall, slipping into his blind side.

Felix shifts again, attention flicking once toward the door where his boss is, before turning back toward the direction the other guards went.

Five steps.

Four.

Three.

I’m right behind him when he finally senses it.

Too late.

My arm locks around his throat, dragging him back into me as I clamp down hard, cutting off his air before he can make a sound.

He reacts instantly, strong and trained, hands coming up, fighting the hold, trying to break free.

Not happening.

Not today, asshole.

Not. Fucking. Today.

I tighten my grip, shifting my weight, pulling him deeper into shadow as his boots scrape against the floor.

“Reaper, don’t. Don’t you dare—don’t you fucking kill him.”

“I’m not,” I grind out under my breath. “Just. Putting him. To sleep.”

Easier said than done.

Felix refuses to go down easy.

He thrashes once. Twice. A third time, before his movements finally start to break apart, losing strength, losing precision.

I hold the choke a second longer than necessary, just to be sure. Then I lower him carefully, controlling the drop so there’s no sound.

I stand there for a second, pulling in a quiet breath as I look down at him.

Fucker’s done.

He’s out.

And fortunately for him, still breathing.

“Nice,” Owen says. “Clock’s ticking, though.”

I’m already moving.

Zip ties out. Wrists secured behind his back. Ankles next.

I pull a cloth from my pocket, shove it into his mouth, securing it with duct tape, tight enough to keep him quiet if he wakes, loose enough that he can still breathe.

Then I drag him across the short distance to the nearest door, the alcove where I was just hiding.

“It’s unlocked,” Owen adds, a hint of pride in his voice. “You’re welcome.”

I don’t answer.

I slip inside, hauling Felix with me into the lone bathroom in the apartment and lowering him into the tub with more care than he deserves.

A low groan slips from him as his body hits the porcelain.

Shit.

He’s coming to.

I don’t hesitate. My fist connects with his jaw, hard enough to put him back under, not hard enough to kill him.

I straighten slowly, rolling the tension out of my shoulders.

I don’t make a habit of hitting men who can’t fight back. But in this case, I’m quite happy to make the exception.

“Wipe that smug look off your face. Bullying the defenseless is unbecoming.”

“Screw you,” I shoot back under my breath.

“Later, sweetheart,” he replies with a chuckle.

But then, just as quickly, something in him shifts. I feel it before he says a word.

“James.” His tone sharpens. “You need to move. Now.”

I’m already turning.

Toward the door at the end of the hall.

Her door.

Every muscle in my body tightens as I close the distance. One step. Two.

My hand comes up, settling on the handle, and I hesitate.

Not because I’m afraid… but because I know whatever’s waiting on the other side of this door will change everything.

“James,” Owen says, low and urgent. “Now. Right the fuck now.”

The handle turns beneath my hand.

The door swings open.

And for one torturous second, everything stops.

Victor is on top of her.

Annelly lies beneath him, naked, her body pinned to the mattress as he looms over her, fully dressed except for the open front of his pants.

His hand gripping himself.

And that’s when it hits me.

He was seconds away.

A breath. A moment.

From violating the woman I love.

The woman I swore to protect with my last dying breath.

The world narrows.

Time. Sound. Air.

Gone.

All that exists is the scene in front of me—burned in, searing itself into something deep and violent.

Reaper.

I let him loose.

I’m on him before he even knows I’m there, hitting him hard enough to rip him off her, sending him crashing to the floor beside the bed as something inside me snaps completely apart.

No control.

No thought.

Just—

Rage.

My fist slams into his jaw.

Again.

Then again.

Each hit lands with bone-deep force as I drive him back across the floor.

He grunts, tries to twist away, but I don’t let him.

Don’t give him space.

Don’t give him breath.

Every strike is fueled by the image still burning behind my eyes—his hands on her, his body over hers.

She’s mine to love—to protect.

He doesn’t get to touch her.

He doesn’t get to breathe the same air.

I grab his collar, hauling him up just to slam him back against the wall, my forearm driving into his throat, cutting off whatever sound he tries to make.

“You don’t get to touch her,” I rasp, my voice unrecognizable even to me. “Try it again and I’ll—”

One second he’s red-faced and sneering. The next—

He moves.

Fast.

I don’t see it coming. I don’t even think to look. I’m too focused on his face. On breaking it. On destroying him.

By the time I register the movement, it’s already too late.

His hand drops to my holster. The weight at my side disappears. A split second later, cold metal presses against me.

Everything stops.

The rage.

The movement.

The world snaps violently back into place as reality crashes in all at once.

My gun.

In his hand.

Pointed at me.

My chest rises once, hard. Then stills.

Behind me, I’m aware of her. Of where she is. Of how close she is. Of what happens if this goes wrong. If I can’t find some way to take back control.

And in that single, brutal moment of clarity, I see it.

My mistake.

Not tactical. Not strategic.

Personal.

I lost control. Let him push me to the edge of my sanity, and it may have just cost me everything.

Victor’s arm steadies.

The barrel doesn’t waver.

And for the first time since I stepped into this building, I can’t force myself to move. 

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# Chapter 37

James

As I stare down the barrel of the gun, every instinct in my body surges at once. 

Move
. 
Get to her. Get her behind you. End this before he even has the chance to pull that trigger anywhere near her.

But I don't get the chance. One second she's on the bed, and the next she's between us, standing there like she's the one protecting me.

A cold, sinking realization drops through my chest.

She's too far.

Too goddamn far for me to reach her in time.

"Victor—please." Her voice trembles as she steps forward, closing the distance between them instead of retreating, moving toward the gun, toward the man who has already taken too much from her.

"Annelly... don't." My voice comes out rough, dragged from somewhere deep in my chest where fear and fury have twisted together into something tight and suffocating. "Get behind me."

She doesn't listen.

Doesn't even look at me.

I move anyway, one last attempt to grab her, to pull her back, but she slips out of reach, stepping away from me and closer to that madman, like she's already made the decision for both of us.

"You don't have to do this, Victor," she pleads, her breath hitching around a terrified sob. "I'll stay with you. I'll do whatever you want. Just please let him go. I swear I'll stay. I... I'll love you."

The words hit like a blow to the chest, not because I believe them, but because I know exactly what she's doing. I see it in the tension in her shoulders, held just a little too tight. In the way her hands tremble at her sides. In the way she forces herself to stand there, exposed, vulnerable, terrified, and still chooses to step closer.

She's doing it for me.

"Please, Victor. Just give me this one chance. I can fix this. I can fix what I broke between us."

Victor laughs, the sound slicing through the space between us like broken glass. To him, this is entertainment. A game he's already convinced himself he's going to win.

"Don't play me for a fool, my little dove," he purrs, dragging the back of his hand across the blood smeared along his cheek.

His face is a mess—split lip, one eye nearly swollen shut, bruises already blooming across his skin—and still it doesn't feel like enough. I should have killed him when I had the chance.

I don't take my eyes off him. 

Not for a second.

I track everything. The angle of his arm, the tightening of his grip around the gun, the subtle shift of his stance as he adjusts his weight, the way his finger hovers just outside the trigger guard like he's savoring the moment before he takes everything from me.

One wrong move.

That's all it could take, and I could lose her forever.

"If you really loved me," he says, tilting his head as he studies her like she's something to be dissected instead of cherished, "you'd let me shoot him, don't you think?"

His smile is pure malice as the gun shifts in my direction, like he's testing the angle, deciding whether to shoot through her or around her.

"No. Please—" she chokes out, and the sound of it cuts through me in a way I can't afford.

I lock down on instinct, forcing everything inside me into stillness.

I can't move.

I can't react.

I can't be anything but controlled, even as something hot and violent builds beneath my skin, threatening to break free.

"Let him go," she pushes, her voice breaking as she takes another step, closing the distance between them inch by inch like she's willingly walking into the fire. "Then I'll dance for you. I'll stay. I'll do anything. Just please don't hurt him."

My jaw tightens, the pressure building until it aches, until it feels like something inside me is going to crack if I don't release it.

But I don't.

I force it down.

Because he's watching. Waiting for me to make another mistake.

"Oh, shut up," he snaps. "You expect me to believe that? After everything you've denied me? After all your running—making me chase you—you seriously think I'd buy that bullshit?"

"Yes."

Her answer is immediate, almost convincing if not for the way it scrapes out of her, raw and trembling.

"Because you can read me. You always could. And I know you see it. How sorry I am. How much I regret everything I've done. I'm here now. Standing in front of you, of my own free will, telling you I'll stay. I'll be yours."

Her words cut deep. Because she swore she'd never do this. Give herself up. Not for me. Not for anyone.

Hearing her break that promise... something inside me snaps. The pressure builds fast, the monster slamming hard against the inside of my ribs like it's done with the waiting, tired of being contained.

I need to do something.

I shift, barely, just enough to test the distance, to see if there's any angle, any opening, any way I can reach her without—

Victor's gaze sharpens.

The gun lifts.

Higher.

Now aimed directly at her head.

"Take another fucking step, and she dies."

I freeze.

"Victor, no... look at me." 

She steps in again, pulling his focus back to her, dragging it away from me like she's already decided the cost of her life is a price she's willing to pay if it means I walk out of this alive. 

"This is about you and me. I loved you once. There's no reason I can't love you again." 

She takes a slow breath, and I see it—the shift in her shoulders, the way the tension eases just slightly. Not in surrender. Resolve.

"Deep down," she whispers, "I think I always knew I was meant to be yours."

The words settle into the space between us, fragile and trembling. And even though I know they're a lie, they still burn. Not because I doubt her love for me. Because I hate what this is costing her. 

"Then prove it." There's no hesitation now. No pretense. Just cold, final intent. "Come to me, and in front of lover boy over there... kiss me."

My chest constricts, tight enough to hurt, as I watch her hesitate, a shudder moving through her body like she's bracing herself for something she knows she can't come back from.

"Get a move on, Dove. We both know I'm not a patient man."

His gaze drags over her, slow and lewd, and it damn near sends me over the edge. Especially when she takes a step toward him.

"Annelly, don't—" The words come out harsher than I intend, the control slipping just enough to show.

But it's already too late.

I watch as she steps into him, every inch of her bare skin exposed under the light, every bruise, every mark, every reminder of what he's already done to her hitting me all at once until it's almost impossible to breathe through it.

 My hands curl at my sides, fingers digging into my palms hard enough to anchor me, to keep me grounded, to keep me from doing the one thing I can't afford to do.

Because all I want to do is tear him apart with my bare hands.

My vision narrows, heat rising fast, violent and possessive, driven by instinct more than control.

Mine.

Those lips are mine.

That body is mine to worship, to protect. 

Not his to touch. Not his to take—

I drag in a slow breath, forcing it deep, forcing it steady, locking everything back down where it belongs. 

Because this isn't about me.

It can't be. Not when she's doing this for me.

She lifts her face. Rises onto her toes. And presses her mouth to his.

Something inside my chest shifts out of place, something essential giving way as I stand there and watch the woman I love give him something that was never meant to be his.

Not because she wants to. 

Because she has to.

Because I put her in a position where this is the only way out.

That realization hits harder than anything else. Harder than the rage. Harder than the jealousy. Harder than the violence clawing its way up my spine, demanding I end this now.

She's sacrificing a part of herself.

Giving him this... this piece of herself, so I get to live.

Bastille groans into her mouth, loud and obscene, dragging the sound out like he knows exactly what it's doing to me, like he's feeding off it, pushing it further, testing how far he can go before I break.

And God—

I am so damn close.

The Reaper surges, riding me hard like he's done asking for permission and is seconds away from taking control.

Kill him.

End this.

Now.

My weight shifts forward before I can stop it, instinct overriding thought, but I lock it down. I force it back because the gun is pressed to her. If I move, if I even try, he pulls the trigger and I lose her.

So I stay where I am. 

And I watch. 

And with every second that passes, it feels like something inside me is shattering.

Then everything changes.

His hand snaps around her, rough and unforgiving, yanking her back and spinning her into him in one brutal motion.

"No—" The word rips out of me before I can stop it.

His arm locks tight across her chest, pinning her there, trapping her, holding her in place as the gun comes up in the same breath.

Now it's pointed straight at me.

Everything narrows.

Her eyes find mine, wide and shattered, and I see the moment it hits her. She's lost control. She can't protect me anymore.

Fuck.

"See?" Victor hisses against her ear, his gaze locked on mine as his hand squeezes one of her breasts hard enough to make her gasp in pain. 

It's deliberate. A test. A dare.

But I don't move. 

I won't give him the excuse. I won't set her up to watch me die.

Instead, something low and feral tears out of me, a sound dragged up from somewhere raw and breaking.  

"Now this, my dove... this is love."

Fear flashes across her face, her body trembling as he adjusts his grip, the gun steady now, aimed directly at my chest.

I see the moment she understands. The way her gaze drops, locking onto his finger as it settles on the trigger.

"No. No, no, no—" she sobs, the sounds coming from her breaking my fucking heart.

"It's alright, snowflake," I say, forcing the words out as calmly as I can. "Just... close your eyes."

If she doesn't see it—

If she doesn't watch—

Maybe it won't break her completely.

"No, Dove," Bastille snarls. "You keep those beautiful eyes on lover boy over there, or I swear to God I'll shoot him... then force you to paint these walls with his fucking blood."

As if the thought arouses him, he grinds against her, his grip tightening, possessive, his movements obscene.

And the way her body reacts—rigid, trembling, trying to pull away but unable to break free—feeds something vicious inside me that is getting harder and harder to contain.

"Now, I like a threesome as much as the next guy..."

His hand drags over her body as he talks, lewd and deliberately violating, making sure I see it. Making sure I 
feel
 the consequences of my failure.

And I do.

God, I do.

It hits like a physical blow, sharp and blinding, rage flooding through my system, my pulse roaring in my ears.

But I don't move.

For her sake.

Because as long as I hold this line—this thin, fragile line between control and chaos—there's still a chance I can get both of us out of this alive.

"But you see, the trouble is," he continues, his tone darkening, "you kept her from me."

My focus sharpens, every detail of what he's doing snapping into place with brutal clarity. The angle of his arm. The rising tension in his grip. The way his finger settles against the trigger.

No hesitation this time. 

No distance. 

He's decided.

This is it.

"So... fuck you."

The gunshot explodes through the room.

Loud.

Violent.

For a fraction of a second, nothing makes sense. 

There's no pain. 

Just the force of it, the impact slamming into me, knocking the breath from my lungs in a way that feels unreal.

Then I'm falling.

Not all at once.

It's uneven, disjointed, like the ground disappears in pieces beneath me instead of all at once.

My vision flickers.

The room tilts.

And somewhere through the ringing in my ears, I hear her.

Screaming my name.

That's what pulls me back. That's what forces everything into focus just enough for me to process—

He shot me.

My back hits the wall before I drop to the floor, the impact jarring through me, and still there's no pain.

Just pressure.

Just the creeping awareness that my body is failing.

I drag in a breath and choke on it. 

It doesn't come the way it should. Doesn't fill my lungs.

It catches in my throat, short and shallow, like my body has forgotten what to do.

Then the burning pain hits.

Sudden.

Unrelenting.

Spreading fast.

My hand moves on instinct, pressing hard against my abdomen, and the second my palm connects with my shirt, I feel it.

Wet.

Warm.

Blood.

Too much fucking blood.

It soaks through the fabric, slick against my skin, seeping between my fingers no matter how much pressure I apply, and the realization lands hard.

This is bad.

Worse than bad.

My head swims, the edges of my vision darkening as a wave of dizziness crashes over me, my body already starting to slip.

But I don't let go.

I can't.

Because she's still here.

And she still needs me.

My gaze snaps back to her, locking on like it's the only thing tethering me to this world.

She's fighting. Thrashing in his arms, trying to break free, her movements frantic, desperate, her entire body shaking as she screams my name again.

"No—no, no. Please, no—James!" 

Her voice breaks. 

Shatters.

And that—
that's
 what wrecks me.

Not the blood. 

Not the pain. 

Not the knowledge that I may be minutes away from the end of my life.

No. 

It's her. 

The look on her face.

The panic.

The guilt.

I can't let that be the last thing she feels in her final moments with me.

So I hold on. 

With every ounce of strength I have left. 

❤️

 
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👇🏼

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And the best part? Following me there is totally 
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.

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"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 38

James

“It’s okay.” The words come out strained, dragged from lungs that won’t quite cooperate, but I force them because she needs to hear them. “Baby… it’s okay.”

I don’t know if she believes me. Hell, I don’t even know if I believe it.

But I say it anyway.

Because she needs something to hold onto. Because if I’m going down, I’m not dragging her down with me.

She fights harder, her body twisting violently as she tries to get to me, but Bastille doesn’t let her go. His grip tightens, his laughter slicing through the room, deranged and unhinged. Like he’s enjoying this. Enjoying watching her break.

And I can’t do a damn thing about it.

My hand presses harder against my wound, but it’s useless. My body won’t respond the way I need it to. Strength bleeds out of me faster than I ever imagined possible, each breath shorter, rougher than the last, rattling through my lungs like I’m breathing underwater.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stay present. To stay aware. To stay here, because she’s still in danger. And I don’t care how much blood I lose—I’m not leaving her.

Not like this. Not with him.

But reality doesn’t give a damn about what I want.

Watching this play out while I lie here, useless and unable to help her, hits hard. The pressure builds inside me until it breaks, a rough, fractured sound tearing out of my chest.

“I’m sorry, baby… I’m so fucking sorry…”

The words come out uneven, dragged between breaths that won’t settle. The pain twisting through me has nothing to do with the gunshot wound.

It’s my heart.

Broken.

Crushed under the weight of her devastation.

“NO. Let me go to him. Let me help him. Please—we have to help him.”

He just laughs.

The sound is worse this time. Louder. Meaner. Like he’s feeding off her panic as his grip tightens, turning rough, careless, violent enough that a fresh spike of fear cuts through the haze.

Not for me.

For her.

“Snowflake… stop.” The words barely hold together. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

It’s a lie. A weak one. But if it helps her, I’ll keep saying it.

My hand fumbles toward my ear, fingers clumsy, uncoordinated, searching for the comms device that should be there but isn’t.

A cold drop settles in my gut.

It must have fallen out during the fight.

Shit.

I know they can see what’s happening in the room. I just can’t hear them.

And right now, I need that.

Need to know how close they are. How much longer I have to hold on before Zeb gets here to save her.

“Now isn’t this beautiful?” Bastille drawls, his voice sliding through the space like something foul. “The three of us together. Finally… everyone understanding their place. Finally seeing there’s only one way this ends.”

My heart pounds harder in my chest.

“Now come here, Dove. Time for your penance. Time to give me what I’m owed.”

I watch helplessly as he shoves her to the ground, her body hitting hard like she means nothing to him. Like she’s nothing.

Then, to my horror, he drops between her legs, positioning himself over her.

Everything inside me goes cold.

No.

No, no—

He’s going to rape her.

Like my brain can’t even fathom it, the thought doesn’t land all at once. It seeps in, slow and suffocating, wrapping tight around my chest until I can’t pull in any air.

God, no! Please don’t let this happen.

Not here. Not like this.

Not while I lie here watching.

Useless.

Dying.

Her tear-filled eyes snap to mine, wide and shattered, and beneath the terror, beneath the pain, I see it.

Her focus.

On me.

Even now. Even like this. She’s still most worried about me.

That realization hits harder than anything else, cutting straight through the fog of pain, sharp and brutal and undeserved.

“Annelly…” Her name barely makes it past my lips. “Look at me, baby. Keep your eyes on me.”

It’s all I have left to give her. The only protection I can offer.

My voice. My focus. My love.

Her gaze locks onto mine instantly, like she can’t not —like something deeper than fear is holding us there. Tethering us together.

There you are.

There she is.

And for a moment, everything else falls away.

The fear. The pain. The blood. The crushing, suffocating helplessness threatening to drag me under.

None of it matters.

Because we’re here. Together. And as long as I can still see her—as long as we can still hold on to one another—I can keep us both steady.

“I love you,” she whispers.

The unexpected words hit like a physical blow and a lifeline all at the same time, puncturing straight through my chest while also anchoring me to my purpose. To her.

A broken sound rips out of me, my throat closing around everything I need to say.

I need to answer her. Need to tell her I feel the same, but I don’t get the chance. Because out of nowhere, his hand cracks hard across her face.

“No!” The word rips out of me, torn from somewhere deep and breaking.

Her head jerks with the impact, her body recoiling, and something inside me fractures all over again—rage and helplessness colliding so hard it leaves me shaking.

“Don’t you dare talk to him. You’re mine. Not his,” Bastille snarls.

Then he looks at me.

And smiles.

His hand wraps around his erection, crude and deliberate, his body shifting as he lines himself up, making sure I see everything. Making sure I understand.

The world tilts.

Sound distorts.

Everything narrows down to that single, unbearable truth.

He’s going to take her.

Right here, right in front of me.

A sound claws its way out of my throat, something raw and unrecognizable, stripped of anything human. Rage. Despair. Fury. All of it ripping through me at once, with nowhere to go.

Move.

Do something.

Get up!

My body doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get it to obey.

“Now watch me, lover boy. Watch how a real man takes what he wants—”

It comes out of nowhere. A sharp crack that doesn’t quite register.

For a second, nothing makes sense.

Victor’s head snaps back.

A spray of red.

His body goes slack, collapsing forward, dead weight crashing down over her.

Only then does the sound catch up, the echo slamming into my ears, followed by the distant, fractured sound of her scream.

My vision struggles to focus, dragging itself back to her.

She’s underneath him.

Still.

Too still.

Her eyes are wide, blown open with shock, something hollow and shattered behind them. And in her hands—

My gun.

Her fingers tremble around it.

Jesus.

She shot him.

“Baby…” The word barely forms as I stare at her, my chest tightening in a completely different way now. “Snowflake…”

She doesn’t move.

“Annelly…” I try again, my voice failing me.

Nothing.

In that instant, the door slams open.

Zeb.

He stops dead just inside the room, his face draining of color as he takes in the scene.

Me on the floor, bleeding out.

Bastille’s dead body sprawled over her.

Annelly, beneath him, naked, and covered in blood.

“What the fuck, James—”

“Get her…” I rasp. “She’s in shock… she shot him.”

He moves.

The door shuts quietly behind him as he crosses the room in a few long strides, dropping next to her and shoving Bastille’s body aside like it weighs nothing.

“Hey, look at me,” he says, his voice softer now. “Annelly, honey… it’s me. It’s Zeb.”

She doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink.

“Is she… is she alright?” The words rush out, panic slipping through. “Tell me she’s okay.”

“Yep,” Zeb mutters, focused completely on her. “She’s good. Just a little shaken up.” Then, sparing a glance in my direction, “How about you? You still with me?”

I nod.

Or try to.

Like my body’s determined to prove me a liar, my vision cuts out for a second, the world going black as seemingly every muscle in my body tries to give out at once. My head dips, but I force it back, dragging in a breath that doesn’t go deep enough.

Not yet.

I can’t let go yet.

“You’re okay,” he tells her. “You did good. You hear me, Nell? You’re okay.”

Still nothing.

He grabs the sheet from the bed and wraps it around her quickly but carefully, shielding her, containing the damage. Then his jacket goes around her shoulders, pulled in tight like he’s trying to piece her back together.

She doesn’t fight him. Doesn’t help either.

Then he’s up and moving again. This time towards me.

“Christ…” he breathes as he reaches me, hands already on me, pressing, assessing, calculating. “You’re bleeding out.”

“No shit,” I manage, the words slurred.

He huffs, something between a laugh and a curse. “Come on. Time to go.”

One second, I’m on the floor.

The next, I’m not.

My arm is slung over his shoulders, my weight sagging into him as he hauls me upright. My legs don’t feel like mine. They don’t respond right. Every step is wrong. Unsteady. Delayed.

Somewhere in the haze, I register Annelly beside us. Wrapped in the sheet. Zeb’s jacket hanging off her shoulders. Her movements slow, mechanical, like she’s not fully inside her own body yet.

There are steps.

So many fucking steps.

Each one jars through me, pain flaring hotter, spreading wider until it all blurs together.

Then—

Alarms.

They hit all at once, coming from every direction.

Loud. Shrill.

Blasting through the building, bouncing off the walls, mixing with the sound of shouting, of people running, bodies pushing past us in a blur I can’t quite track.

I try to focus.

Try to make sense of it.

But everything feels wrong. Slow. Like my brain is operating half a step behind the rest of the world.

Then—

A rush of cold air.

It cuts through me the second we step outside, dragging a breath out of me that actually fills my lungs for the first time since I was shot.

It sends a shiver running through me, and though it intensifies the pain, I welcome it anyway. Because it means I’m still here. And more importantly, so is she.

The thought hooks into me, dragging me back just enough that my head lifts, awareness flickering.

The relief hits hard.

“Annelly…” I manage, the word breaking apart when a cough rips through me, violent and sudden, doubling me over as much as Zeb will allow.

“She’s here,” he says. “Right beside me. Almost there—just hang on.”

His voice sounds far away. Distorted. Delayed.

Then—

Tires screech somewhere in front of us.

The sound yanks at my attention, my head lifting just enough to catch movement—a dark shape, a door sliding open with a metallic bang.

“Here we go. Annelly, stay close,” Zeb says, sharper now, urgency cutting through.

Dark figures come towards us—fast, controlled—hands reaching for me, taking some of my weight, pulling me forward as the ground tilts beneath my feet.

“Un-fucking-believable, what the fuck were you thinking? Jesus Christ—”

Ben.

His voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and pissed, but I barely register it.

“We need to move,” Zeb snaps back. “Now. Bastille’s dead.”

Lucas is there too—solid, steady—his hands bracing me, guiding me up and into the van as the world starts to shift again, edges warping, vision narrowing.

“Wait…” The word scrapes out of me. “Annelly…”

I can’t lose her. Not now. Not after—

“I got her.” A woman’s voice cuts through the noise. “She’s right here.”

Maxine.

Good. Good.

Means Annelly’s safe.

A few seconds later, we’re moving.

I don’t know where.

Don’t care.

The world outside smears into streaks of light and shadow, sliding past too fast for my eyes to keep up.

None of it matters anyway.

Right now, there’s only one thing I need.

Her.

I need to feel her. Need to know she’s still here. Still with me. Still safe.

“Annelly…” My voice trembles. “Need… Annelly.”

“I’m here—right here, James.” Her voice breaks as it reaches me, close—so close. “Stay with me. Keep talking. Stay with me.”

Her hand finds mine.

Warm.

Real.

I latch onto it instinctively, my fingers tightening around hers as much as they can, grounding myself in the only thing that still feels solid.

Her.

“Baby…” The word drags out of me, fractured, uneven. “I lo…love…you…”

It takes everything I have left to say it. But I need her to hear it. Need her to know.

Her grip tightens instantly, like she’s holding me together through sheer force of will.

“I love you too,” she cries, her arms coming around me, pulling me close as she buries her face against my neck.

I breathe her in.

That familiar scent. That warmth.

Her .

My home. My safety. My security.

Something inside me loosens then.

The tight, crushing grip in my chest. The fear. The fight.

All of it melting away because she’s here.

Alive. Safe.

And I got to tell her.

I got to hold her.

Just one more time.

“I love you so much… just hang on. Please don’t leave me.” Her voice trembles against my skin.

I want to do as she asks.

God, do I want to.

But my body is done.

And for the first time since this started, I don’t fight it.

Because she’s safe.

Because she’s free.

Because she’s not alone.

My eyes drift closed, and this time…

I let go.

❤️

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# Chapter 39

Annelly

His eyes drift closed, and at first I don't think anything of it.

He's hurt. He's exhausted. He's—

"James?"

My fingers tighten around his, giving his hand a small squeeze as I wait for him to squeeze back like he did before.

He doesn't.

A flicker of unease moves through me, quiet at first, easy to ignore as I shift closer, brushing my thumb over his knuckles while I take in his face.

"Hey... stay awake for me, okay?"

His head tips forward with the movement of the car, too loose, too heavy, and something cold settles in my chest.

"James?" I say again, louder now, my hands coming up to frame his face. "Hey, look at me."

No reaction.

"James?" Panic slips into my voice as I lean closer, my ear near his mouth, holding my breath.

Nothing.

No air.

"No." My hand flies to his chest, pressing hard. "James, come on. Come on."

Still nothing.

"He's not breathing." The words slip out under my breath, like I'm afraid that if I say them too loud, they'll become real.

"Zeb—" My voice rises, sharper now, cutting through the space between us. "Zeb, something's wrong. He's not—"

My hands grip his shirt, shaking him harder now, desperation taking over. "James, wake up. Please, please wake up."

He doesn't move.

Doesn't respond.

"He's not breathing!" I scream, the panic finally snapping free. "He's not breathing. Someone help him. Please, help him!"

Everything happens at once.

"Annelly, move!" Lucas's voice cuts through the chaos as he twists in his seat, already climbing over the center console before the words fully register.

Zeb is moving at the same time, his hand bracing James's shoulder, turning him, lowering him across the seat with a speed and precision that should be reassuring.

But it isn't.

Not when his body goes so easily. Not when there's no resistance. No fight.

"Get his head," Lucas orders, his voice tight but controlled as he shifts into position, his hands already finding James's chest.

I don't move.

I can't.

I'm still holding onto him, still trying to pull him back, my hands gripping his, afraid to let him go.

"Annelly, move!" Lucas snaps.

In the same breath, hands grab me. Strong. Firm. Pulling me back.

I fight it instinctively. "No. I need to—"

"You're in the way." The woman's words aren't unkind, but they don't leave room for argument as I'm pulled backward into the third row seat, my grip slipping from James as the distance between us is forced open.

"No." My hand flies to my mouth as the other presses against my chest, the panic twisting into something deeper. "No, no, no—"

"Starting compressions." 

Lucas's hands press down hard against his chest. Once. Twice. A third time. Then again and again, the rhythm taking over as James's body jerks beneath the force of it.

Each push is violent. Jarring. Wrong.

"Come on, come on..." Zeb mutters under his breath as he tilts James's head back, sealing his mouth over his, breathing into him in sharp, measured bursts.

The sounds fill the car. 

Breaths.

Compressions.

The two men working in tandem with practiced precision, like they've done this before. 

But for me, it's too much. 

The sight of it, the sounds, the rhythm, all of it pounds into my skull, into my chest, until it feels like I can't breathe. Like it's me lying there with him on the brink of death.

"Ben, how far out?" Lucas demands, not breaking pace.

"Five minutes," Ben fires back from the driver's seat, his voice tight. "Almost there."

"Fuck." Lucas exhales sharply, his arms never slowing. "He needs blood. Five minutes might be too late."

No.

No—

"You have to save him." The words spill out of me, shaking, barely holding together as I clutch at the edge of the seat. "Please... just save him."

My gaze locks onto James's face, searching for any sign that he's still there. That he's fighting. That he's trying.

There's nothing.

He just lies there.

Unmoving.

Like he's already gone.

A sob tears out of me before I can stop it.

"It's going to be alright."

The voice comes from next to me, the woman's hand slipping into mine, steady and grounding, but I barely register it. My body is still leaning forward, still reaching for him, like if I just get close enough, I can somehow will life back into him.

"I'm Maxine. I'm with the FBI and work with these guys. I assure you, he's in good hands."

I nod, or at least I think I do, but my eyes never leave James. 

"Ben, you need to step on it." Lucas snaps.

"Working on it." 

The horn blares as the car jerks around traffic, the motion throwing everything into further disarray, making it harder to focus as the sounds of breaths and chest compressions continue to fill the space.

"Come on, James," Zeb mutters, adjusting his grip. "Breathe, asshole. Fucking breathe."

The words twist somewhere deep in my chest.

They're fighting for him.

All of them.

And I can't do anything.

"Please, James," I whisper, the words trembling as they leave me. "Please..."

I cling to whatever I can reach, needing something solid to hold onto as the world seemingly slips out from underneath me.

This can't be happening.

He was just talking to me.

Just holding me.

He told me he loved me.

The memory hits hard, knocking the breath from my lungs as my vision blurs at the edges.

No.

No, he doesn't get to say that and then—

He doesn't get to say goodbye to me. Not like this.

A broken breath leaves me as I shake my head, like I can force the thought away, like I can undo what's happening just by refusing to accept it.

"Annelly." The stern edge in Lucas's voice cuts through. "He needs you to hold it together. Can you do that? To help him, you need to stay strong."

I nod frantically, willing to try anything if it will bring him back to me. Forcing my breathing to slow, I keep my eyes on him as his team works to keep him here... to bring him back to me.

Through the chaos, Maxine's voice cuts through, sharp and authoritative, as she holds her phone to her ear. 

"Gunshot wound, significant blood loss. Male, late twenties. No pulse."

The words reach me in fragments, barely making sense and somehow meaning everything all at once.

"ETA two minutes. We need a team on standby. Trauma, surgical, all of it."

The car lurches as it slows, then turns hard, the sudden movement pulling at my body as lights flash past the windows, bright and blinding, too fast to track.

"We're here," Ben calls from the front, his voice tight. "Move!"

Everything happens at once.

The doors are yanked open before we've even fully stopped, cold air rushing in as voices overlap, a barrage of urgent commands that hit too fast to follow.

"Gunshot wound, no pulse. CPR in progress."

Hands reach in immediately, not hesitating, not asking, taking over with a precision that leaves no room for anything else.

"On three—one, two, three."

They lift him.

And just like that, he's gone from the seat and placed onto a gurney.

"No, wait—" I lurch forward, my hand shooting out, reaching for him, but I'm too far back, too slow, the space between us already widening.

A doctor climbs onto the gurney, straddling him, hands already back on his chest, picking up the rhythm without missing a beat.

"Resuming compressions."

"Clear the way!" 

My heart stutters as they start wheeling him away.

They don't stop.

They don't even look back.

"James—" His name breaks out of me as I stumble after them, the blanket around me slipping as I push forward, desperate to stay close. "Wait, please, I need to be with him—"

A hand catches my arm. 

Firm.

Unyielding, yet still gentle.

"You can't go in there, Annelly." 

Zeb.

"I have to. You don't understand. He needs me." I twist against his hold, panic surging all over again as they push him toward a set of double doors. "James!"

The doors swing open.

And then shut.

Right in front of me.

The sound echoes, loud and final, cutting straight through me as something inside my chest caves in.

"No... no..." The words break apart as my legs give out beneath me, everything I've been holding back crashing down all at once.

I can't breathe.

Why can't I breathe?

The world tilts, sound pulling away, stretching thin and distant as my body goes numb, like it's shutting down one piece at a time.

Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground, pulling me in, holding me up, but I can't feel it the way I should.

"Hey, hey," Zeb's voice is there, close but fading at the edges. "I need help. Someone get over here! I think she's going into shock."

His voice gets louder. More frantic. 

Or maybe it's just that everything inside me is going quiet.

I can't tell.

All I know is that James is somewhere I can't reach.

And I'm still here... trying to find my way back to him.

❤️

 
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👇🏼

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And the best part? Following me there is totally 
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"Follow"
 on 
REAM
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Chapter 40

Annelly

Voices move around me, overlapping, distant and yet too loud all at once. Hands reach for me, touching, holding—but it only makes it worse.

Panic surges.

Memories crash in with it. His hands on me. Hurting me. Trying to violate me.

I lash out without thinking, a broken sound tearing from my throat as I try to push them away. “No—stop—don’t touch me!”

“Easy—hey, easy—”

I can’t focus. Can’t see. The world slips in and out of reach as icy fingers of terror wrap around my chest, tightening until I can’t breathe.

I can’t—

“Nell.”

Everything stutters.

That voice.

Familiar. Safe.

“Nell, look at me.”

My vision pulls into focus slowly until Zeb comes into view. He’s down on the ground with me, kneeling in front of me, his hands firm on my arms, not restraining, just holding me in place.

“You’re okay,” he says, his grip tightening just enough to keep me from drifting. “I’ve got you. Just stay with me, all right?”

I try to nod, but I don’t know if I actually do. My breathing is still uneven as I stare at him, clinging to the steadiness of his grip, the only thing that feels solid.

“We’re at the hospital, remember?” he adds, slower this time. “You’re safe.”

Hospital.

That’s right.

The word registers, but it does nothing to settle the panic building inside me.

“James.” My chest caves in all over again, a sob catching in my throat. “Where is he?” The words rush out, desperate as my gaze darts past him, searching. “I need to see him. To be with him.”

“He’s inside,” Zeb cuts in, steady but firm. “Doctors have him. They’re working on him.”

Working on him.

Because he had no pulse. Because he wasn’t breathing.

A broken breath leaves me as the memories come crashing back in, my body folding forward as I try to get up, to get past him.

“I need to go to him. I need to make sure—”

“Yeah, that’s not happening right now, honey. It’s just not.” His grip tightens slightly as he steadies me. “They’d throw us out before we made it through those doors. We’d only be in the way.”

“He needs me,” I whisper, the words breaking as the panic threatens to rise again.

Zeb exhales, something tight flickering across his face before he looks back at me.

“Trust me,” he mutters. “If anyone’s stubborn enough to fight his way through this, it’s him.”

It’s not the reassurance I need.

But for now… it helps.

His hands slide down my arms, catching my hands instead. He gives them a quick squeeze before letting go.

“Look,” he adds, his gaze shifting away for a second. “Before we went into that building, he made me promise I’d take care of you if things went sideways.”

My throat tightens.

Of course he did.

“So now,” he continues, lifting one shoulder in a half shrug, “you and me are kind of stuck with each other. Which means you don’t get to completely fall apart on me. Not yet, anyway.” His mouth twitches faintly. “You take everything you’re feeling, all the fear, the grief, the anger, you hold it down, keep it together until he wakes up. And then you dump it all on him. Because after pulling a stunt like this, I’d say the asshole earned it. Don’t you think?”

A weak breath escapes me. It makes my chest ache a little with guilt, since I know this is just his way of trying to lighten the moment.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Good.” He pushes to his feet and offers me a hand. “Because I need you standing strong. After carrying his lazy ass down three flights of steps while he bled all over my favorite band shirt, I’m done. I’m not hauling anyone else.” His brow furrows as he shakes his head in mock disgust. “My favorite shirt, for God’s sake. I’m sorry… that’s where I draw the line.”

Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitches, the first crack in the panic, as he helps me up and guides me toward the gurney waiting nearby.

My legs barely cooperate as I sit, then lie back, his hands moving quickly to adjust the blanket and jacket around me, careful in a way he probably doesn’t even realize.

“Can I see him first?” I ask again, my voice raw as I look up at him. “Please… I just need to know he’s okay.”

Zeb pauses, just for a second.

Then nods once.

“Not right now. But as soon as they clear it, as soon as the doctors say you’re okay, you’ve got my word. You’ll be the first to see him.”

It’s not enough.

But it’s something to hold onto.

From there, the chaos doesn’t stop.

It just… changes.

Once inside the hospital, I’m moved from one place to the next. Strangers guide me. Unfamiliar voices ask questions I can barely process. Bright lights pass overhead as I’m wheeled down long hallways, the scent of antiseptic sharp in the air. It all blurs together into fragments. Machines. Monitors. A steady stream of tests that never seem to end.

Time loses shape.

Minutes. Hours. I don’t know how long it’s been.

What I do know is that I keep asking the same questions to anyone willing to listen.

“Where is he?”

“Is he okay?”

“Can I see him?”

But no matter who I ask, no matter how many times I ask, no one gives me a real answer.

They try.

I can see it in their faces, the careful, practiced calm of people trained to deliver nothing. I hear it in the measured way they speak.

But it’s always the same.

“ We don’t know.“

“Someone will update you soon.”

The longer it goes on, the harder it gets to hold myself together, especially now that the adrenaline has faded, leaving everything else behind.

Pain settles in first, sharp in some places, deep and aching in others, followed by much heavier things. Things I can’t just push past or ignore.

Exhaustion. Fear. Guilt.

The last one digs deepest.

It presses down on me until I can’t separate one feeling from the next. Whether physical, emotional, or psychological… it all blends into something overwhelming. Something I can’t escape.

And somewhere beneath it all, one thought keeps rising to the surface.

Nothing about this is going to end the way I need it to.

No matter how everything turns out, James, Tyler, the guys… my family… me.

None of us will ever be the same.

After everything, how could we be?

“Annelly?”

The voice cuts gently through my racing thoughts.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Richards. How are you feeling?”

I look up to find an older gentleman in a white coat. There’s something careful in his expression, kind yet measured, the look of someone who’s been told what happened to me and is trying not to let it show.

It makes my skin prickle.

I don’t want careful. I don’t want kind.

I want answers.

“James,” I say immediately, my voice hoarse. “I need to know how he is.”

“He’s in surgery,” the doctor replies. “Our chief of surgery is personally overseeing his care, so rest assured, they’re doing everything they can to help him.”

He pauses, then shifts slightly.

“Now tell me about you. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” I mumble. “And… everything hurts.”

He nods.

“Given what you’ve been through and the injuries you sustained, that’s normal. You’re coming down from a significant adrenaline surge, which can make everything feel worse before it gets better.”

He glances down at the tablet in his hand.

“Right now, our biggest concern is the blunt trauma injury to your right kidney. There’s minimal internal bleeding, which is good, so we’re going to monitor you closely and hopefully avoid surgery. You also have a couple of broken ribs, a fracture in your cheekbone, and a mild concussion. We’d like to admit you for observation for the next few days.”

His words come at me in pieces.

Ribs. Concussion. Kidneys. Surgery. Admission.

This information should matter.

I know it should.

But it doesn’t.

Because none of it compares to the question still sitting in my chest.

“When can I see him?” I ask, my voice more insistent now. “Or can you at least tell me when the surgery will be over?”

The doctor hesitates in that way I’m starting to recognize.

“Not yet,” he says carefully. “We’ll update you as soon as we know more.”

My chest tightens.

He must see it in my expression, because he reaches out and squeezes my hand gently.

“You’re safe now, Miss Connors. And as for your friend…” He pauses briefly. “I know the team operating on him. I have every reason to believe things will turn out all right.”

It’s not certainty.

But it’s something.

“Try to get some rest,” he adds. “We’ll be moving you to a room shortly. I’ll go update your friends and have one of them come sit with you in the meantime.”

Then he’s gone.

Just like that, the room falls quiet around me.

And for the first time since leaving Victor’s building…

I’m alone.

No voices. No hands touching me. No one holding me together or pulling me apart.

Just me.

And everything I’ve been trying not to feel.

I draw in a shaky breath, but it doesn’t help. I try again. And again. But the pressure in my chest only builds, heavier, tighter, pressing in from all sides until my broken ribs ache with it. Until I can’t tell where the physical pain ends and everything else begins.

James.

His name hits me first. Sharp. Punishing.

Followed by the rest.

Dominick. Tyler.

Everything that’s happened. Everything that could still go wrong.

And then—

It slips in anyway.

Unwanted. Uninvited.

The sound of the gun. The recoil in my hand. His eyes as he collapsed. The dead weight of him on top of me, his blood dripping from my skin.

I suck in a broken breath, my body jolting like I’ve been shocked, my fingers curling into the mattress beneath me as I shove the memory away before it can take hold.

No.

I can’t go there.

Not now.

But it’s there anyway.

Lurking just beneath everything else.

Waiting.

Something inside me gives way.

With nowhere for it to go, my body folds in on itself as raw sobs rip from my chest, uncontrollable.

It doesn’t stop.

It can’t.

Because after everything we’ve already survived…

I still might lose him.

❤️

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# Chapter 41

Annelly

I don't hear him come in.

One moment the room is empty, just me and the quiet and everything pressing down from all sides, and the next there's movement in the doorway.

Zeb.

He's changed out of the blood-stained clothes he was wearing, now in an OTS sweatshirt with the sleeves shoved up to his forearms, a coffee cup in each hand. There's a heaviness to him, the kind that settles in after too many hours awake and too much adrenaline burned through with nothing left to replace it.

His gaze sweeps the room the way it always does, fast and automatic, like he can't help cataloguing exits and threats before anything else.

Then it lands on me.

And stops.

I don't need a mirror to know what he sees. Bloodshot eyes. Tear-streaked cheeks. Hands twisted in the thin hospital blanket, like if I hold on tight enough, I might not come apart completely.

There's no hiding how broken I am right now, and the shame of him seeing me like this only makes it worse.

Something shifts in his expression, quick and almost imperceptible, but I catch it. It's the look of a man who walked in expecting one thing and found something else entirely.

He exhales through his nose and steps inside, setting both coffee cups down on the counter with deliberate care, like he's buying himself a second to figure out what the hell to do with me.

"Jesus." He crosses toward me, slower now, his attention fixed on me. "Okay... no. We are not doing this."

I blink at him, tears still slipping free.

"The crying," he clarifies, gesturing vaguely in my direction. "We're going to go ahead and stop that now. Please."

That last word sounds wrong coming from him. Too uncertain. Too close to pleading.

It cuts through the noise in my head just enough to make me focus on him instead of everything else.

He holds my gaze for a second longer than usual, like he's waiting to see if I'll actually listen, then shifts, dragging the chair from the wall and pulling it closer to the bed.

He drops into it, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees.

"Listen," he says, eyes locking on mine. "James made me promise I'd take care of you. Which means if he wakes up and finds out I left you alone long enough to completely fall apart..."

He shakes his head, lips pressing flat.

"I'm done for. End of the line. Years of friendship, in the toilet. Reputation destroyed the second he starts running his mouth and spilling all my secrets to the guys out of pure vengeance. And that's before we even get into the bodily harm."

His eyes narrow, his expression tightening like he's actually picturing it.

"To vital parts of me, Nell. Parts I'm quite attached to. Both literally and figuratively."

A breath catches in my throat, something between a sob and a laugh.

"No. Don't do that," he says immediately, frowning. "Don't laugh. This is serious."

Except it isn't. Not really.

And the fact that he's trying so hard to make it sound like it is makes something fragile shift inside me.

"So do this one thing for me," he adds, quieter now. "Hold it together. At least until the asshole wakes up and can take over. Because me..." He gestures at himself. "I'm not equipped for this. Not even a little."

Another broken sound escapes me, softer this time. Not laughter yet, but definitely lighter.

He seems to take it as a win.

"Yeah," he mutters under his breath. "That's better."

He leans back in the chair, reaching behind him without looking, and holds one of the coffee cups out toward me.

"Drink that before it gets cold. Took me forever to find decent coffee in this place."

I wipe my face and take it, murmuring a quiet thank you, still too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

We sit in silence for a while, the coffee warm between my hands, the quiet between us growing heavier the longer it stretches.

Waiting.

For word on James. 

For me to be admitted and moved to a room. 

For this nightmare to reach some kind of end.

From the corner of my eye, I watch him. One ankle crossed over his knee, fingers turning the cup slowly. To anyone else, he might look relaxed. 

He's not.

I've spent enough time around them to know the difference. For Zeb, for James, for all of them, stillness is something practiced, not felt.

The fact that he's here settles something in me I didn't expect. Maybe it's the fear. Or the exhaustion. Or just the weight of everything pressing down at once.

But having him in this room, waiting with me, matters more than I know how to put into words.

"Thank you," I say softly.

"For the coffee?" he replies without looking up. "You're welcome."

"Zeb."

That gets his attention.

He glances over, and I catch the exact moment he realizes where this is going. The slight shift in his jaw. The way his posture tightens just enough to brace.

"For everything," I finish. "For coming in after us. For getting James out. For—"

"Yeah, we're not doing that either."

He sets his cup down and leans forward again, cutting me off cleanly.

"I didn't do it for you. Or him. So trust me, no thanks needed."

I blink.

"I did it for me." He says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "My life without James? Objectively worse. More paperwork, for one thing. He handles all that. A non-negotiable at this point in our co-working friendship." 

He ticks it off on his fingers. 

"Two, I'd have no one to blame when ops go sideways. He's the hothead, so it's easy to point at him when things go wrong. A fact I find incredibly useful."

Another finger.

"And three, no one else is stupid enough to volunteer for the most dangerous assignments. That's his whole thing." He shrugs lightly. "Without him, it's just me and Owen. And Owen hasn't left his computer screens voluntarily in, what... two years? So—"

"Zeb." I give him a look that makes it clear I know exactly what he's doing.

He doesn't even flinch. 

"I'm being honest here," he says. "It was entirely self-serving." 

He picks his coffee back up and takes a slow, deliberate sip, like that settles it.

"You saved me too," I point out. 

The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it. The first genuine smile I've managed in what feels like days.

"Because he made me promise," Zeb says without missing a beat. "And if I came back without you, he'd be unbearable. Miserable, distracted, impossible to work with. And a distracted James gets me killed." A brief pause. "Or arrested. Probably both."

He lifts one shoulder.

"So... I handled it. Did what I had to."

I stare at him.

He stares right back, expression steady, committed to every word he just said.

It's such a carefully constructed argument, so deliberately impersonal, that I can see straight through it.

"Okay," I say quietly, my smile going wider.

His eyes narrow. "Why did you say it like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you don't believe me."

I take a slow sip of coffee and say nothing.

He looks away first, jaw working faintly, and I get the sense this is as close to flustered as Zeb ever gets.

"I'm being serious," he mutters.

"I know," I say softly.

And I let him have it, even though we both know it's a lie.

The quiet that follows is softer than before.

I stare down at the cup in my hands, watching the thin curl of steam rise from it, and try to hold onto the steadiness Zeb has brought into the room just by being here. But beneath it, something keeps pulling at me. A thread I can't stop tugging, even knowing it might unravel everything I'm trying to hold together.

"Do they hate me?" The words come out smaller than I intend.

Zeb glances over, brow furrowing. "Who?"

"The guys." I keep my eyes on the cup in my hands. "Lucas, Ben, Owen. All of them." A breath. "After everything that happened... after everything I..." My voice catches, fraying at the edges. "Do they blame me?"

He's quiet for a moment, and I can feel him looking at me in that assessing way he has.

"No," he says flatly. 

"You don't have to say that just to—"

"Nell." 

His tone isn't sharp, but it lands that way anyway, stopping me mid-sentence. 

"I don't say things just to make people feel better. Ask anyone who knows me." The corner of his mouth lifts faintly. "I'm not that considerate."

A breath moves through me, uneven but a little steadier.

"None of this is your fault," he continues, softer now. "Victor made his choices. Everything that happened after that is on him. Not you."

"If I hadn't been so—"

"Stop." The word is gentle but firm. "You crossed paths with a man who didn't care who he hurt to get what he wanted. That's not on you."

I press my lips together, fighting the fresh sting behind my eyes.

"You're a victim in this," he says. "Same as James. Same as Tyler. And as far as I'm concerned, that bastard got exactly what he deserved."

Something colder slips into his tone. 

"He went after people I care about. Now he's gone." A brief pause. "That's not a tragedy, Nell. That's karma doing her job."

The certainty in his voice, the complete lack of hesitation...

It sends everything crashing together inside me. Guilt. Grief. Something heavier I can't quite name.

"I killed him," I whisper.

The room goes still.

Zeb doesn't move. Doesn't rush to fill the silence. He just lets the words sit there between us.

"Yeah," he says finally. "You did."

No softening it. No denial. Just a quiet acknowledgement. 

And beneath it... something that feels almost like respect.

"And I think..." He pauses, choosing his words. "That's going to be a hard thing to carry. For a while. Maybe for a long time."

He exhales slowly, then leans back in his chair.

"I'm not going to tell you it shouldn't feel bad. Or that you shouldn't be upset." A brief pause. "What I will say is that what you did kept James alive long enough for us to get him out. That matters."

My throat constricts.

"So whatever you're feeling... you feel it. Whatever you need to do to get through it... do it." A brief pause. "Just don't confuse that guilt you feel with responsibility."

He goes quiet for a second, his gaze drifting, like this is something he knows too well.

"Because they're not the same thing." His eyes come back to mine. "You're not responsible for his death. He is. He left you with no other choice."

I don't trust my voice enough to respond. So I just breathe, slow and careful, focusing on the warmth of the coffee in my hands and letting it steady me.

After a few minutes, he clears his throat. "Something else on your mind?"

I nod, hesitating. "Dominick. Is he..."

"Alive?"

"Yeah." My voice comes out thin, tears pressing at the edges. 

I can still see the moment he went down. Still feel the helplessness of watching it happen and being unable to do anything to help him.

"He is." Zeb's head tilts slightly, the corner of his mouth pulling up. "Remarkably so, considering. Guy gets shot, and he's still somehow the most insufferable asshole I've ever met. Cranky. Opinionated. Making life miserable for the nursing staff." A beat. "So yeah... I'd say he's doing just fine."

Something loosens in my chest, a knot I didn't realize I'd been holding since the moment I watched him go down.

"Thank God," I mutter.

"He'll be out of commission for a while," Zeb adds. "And no doubt he'll spend every second of that time making us miserable. But he'll live." 

His mouth twitches faintly.  

"Between you and me, it's a little satisfying watching that smug prick get knocked on his ass for once. Silver lining for sure."

A breath moves through me, something close to a broken laugh. It fades just as quickly, though. Because there's still someone else I'm worried about.

"And Tyler?" I ask softly.

The lightness in his expression doesn't disappear, but it pulls back, settling into something more serious.

"We found him," he says.

Just three words, but the relief that moves through me is so sudden, so physical, it almost hurts.

"He's alive," Zeb adds. "Still in a hospital near Greenville. Victor's men worked him over pretty bad before we got to him."

My throat tightens.

Happy, easygoing Tyler.

Tyler, with his quick grin and his jokes at the worst possible moments. 

Tyler, who never should have been anywhere near any of this.

"They've got him in a medically induced coma. Giving his body time to heal. But he's stable. His vitals are holding."

I nod, pressing my lips together as a fresh wave of tears builds behind my eyes.

"He's going to be okay." Zeb's voice has gone quieter now, the rough edges worn thin enough that something more honest sits just beneath it. "Tyler's strong as hell. So is James."

He pauses, his gaze dropping to the cup in his hands.

"They're both going to make it."

For a second, his focus drifts, going distant, and I can't tell if he's trying to convince me or himself.

Maybe both.

I let those words settle into me slowly, the way you let something fragile find its place before you dare touch it.

It helps. The ache in my chest doesn't disappear. The fear doesn't loosen its grip. But somewhere beneath it, something stirs. 

Hope.

Quiet. Stubborn. Refusing to be extinguished.

I close my eyes and reach for him across whatever distance separates us now.

I'm here, James.

Right here, waiting for you.

So fight, baby... 

Fight and find your way back to me.

❤️

 
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REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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Chapter 42

Annelly

Time moves strangely in a place like this. Too slow when you’re waiting. Too fast when exhaustion drags you under and steals hours you never meant to lose.

Thirty-six hours.

That’s how long it’s been.

And somewhere between his seven-hour surgery, the pain medication they keep insisting I need, and the full-body crash that came after days of fear, adrenaline, and trauma, I’ve spent most of the last day asleep.

Or trying to, anyway.

It never feels like actual sleep. Just fragments. Shallow and restless. The kind where your body shuts down because it has nothing left to give, but your mind refuses to follow.

Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there.

Victor’s hands. The gun. The sound of the shot. James falling. The blood.

Sometimes it’s worse.

Sometimes I dream everything happens too late. That I’m standing there screaming his name while blood spreads beneath him, his life slipping away, and no one moves fast enough to save him, no matter how hard I try.

And every time, I wake the same way.

Heart pounding. Skin damp with sweat. Panic lodged so deep in my chest I can barely breathe around it.

Every single time, one of them is there.

Ben or Zeb.

One of them is always sitting in the chair beside my hospital bed like they’ve made some silent agreement that I’m not allowed to be alone.

I should probably find that comforting.

Sometimes I do.

But most of the time, seeing them only makes it worse, because they’re not him.

They’re not James.

And all I want—all I’ve wanted since they wheeled him away from me—is him.

I want to hear his voice. I want his hand in mine. Above all, I want proof that he’s still here. Still fighting. Still choosing to stay.

But because of my own injuries, the doctors have made it very clear that I’m not going anywhere.

Not to ICU. Not to see him. Not even down the hallway without their say-so.

It’s infuriating.

Apparently, being kidnapped, nearly raped, surviving a psychopath, and helping kill said psychopath does not qualify someone for special hospital privileges.

Ridiculous, honestly.

Which is why I’m here.

Lying in this bed. Still waiting. Still staring at the same ugly ceiling tiles like they might eventually offer me some kind of relief.

They don’t.

I feel helpless.

And scared.

And with every minute that passes, a little more hopeless.

The door opens before I can spiral too far down that road.

Zeb walks in like he always does, quiet and alert, like even after more than a day of me being here, he still doesn’t trust the hospital room until he’s assessed it for threats all over again.

He’s changed clothes again, dark jeans and yet another OTS sweatshirt. There’s a coffee in one hand and, for reasons I cannot begin to explain, a bouquet of flowers in the other.

I blink at him.

He notices immediately and lifts the flowers slightly.

“Before you ask, no, these are not from me. It might come as a surprise, but I’m not emotionally mature enough to arrange surprise floral gestures.”

Despite everything, a laugh catches in my throat.

“They’re from Ben,” he says, stepping farther inside. “He got stuck taking a call and told me to deliver them.” He frowns, tilting his head like he’s actually considering it. “Which I guess, at least for today, makes me his aggressively overpaid, overqualified florist.”

He sets the coffee on my tray table and drops the flowers onto the counter with all the grace of someone disposing of suspicious evidence.

Then he looks at me.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Good afternoon, Nell. You look…” He tilts his head like he’s searching for the right word. “Slightly less haunted today.”

I glance down at myself.

My hospital gown is wrinkled and bunched in places I hadn’t noticed. My hair is a disaster, desperately needing to be brushed, flakes of dried blood still falling from it every time I run my fingers through it, even after the nurses did their best to get me cleaned up.

And I don’t need a mirror to know my eyes are red and bloodshot, courtesy of the gritty, burning feeling and all the crying I can’t seem to stop.

I’m pretty sure I look every bit the traumatized victim I’m trying very hard not to be.

“I need a shower,” is all I manage.

He nods once, face serious.

“Yeah. You do.” A beat. “Respectfully, you are kind of gross.”

I stare at him.

He stares right back.

And then, because apparently this is my life now, I laugh. A real one this time.

His shoulders loosen like he counts that as a win.

“Excellent,” he says, dragging the chair beside my bed closer with his foot. “Humor’s back. I was starting to worry we were getting dangerously close to becoming one of those heartfelt hospital dramas, and I was fully prepared to make a hasty exit if necessary.”

He drops into the chair with a groan that sounds pulled from somewhere deep and ancient.

“Now I know it’s safe to stay.”

I study him more carefully this time. The dark circles under his eyes are worse today. His jaw is rough with stubble, and there’s a heaviness to him he’s trying—and failing—to hide behind all the sarcasm.

He looks exhausted.

More than exhausted.

“Have you slept at all?”

The question slips out before I can stop it, and immediately I’m kicking myself for not noticing sooner how much the last few days haven’t just wrecked me.

Ben.

Zeb.

The rest of the guys.

This has to be hitting all of them hard.

He waves a hand at me like I’ve asked something ridiculous.

“Nah. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Then, after a beat, he adds, “Or when my body finally gives out. Whichever comes first.”

I snort softly, shaking my head, but the smile fades quickly. Because underneath the sarcasm and exhaustion, the truth is obvious.

James.

Until he wakes up, none of us will really be able to rest.

Zeb must feel the shift too, because something changes in his expression. Like he’s decided he’s had enough of this and is determined to do something about it.

He leans forward, bracing his forearms on his knees.

“So,” he says, his voice casual in a way that immediately makes me suspicious, “how attached are you to following the rules?”

I blink.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

I narrow my eyes. “That depends. Are we talking about something illegal? And if so, how illegal?”

“Ah.” He waves it off. “Child’s play. Not illegal at all.”

Despite myself, my pulse kicks a little faster.

“What do you have in mind?”

He leans forward in his chair, eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to mischief.

“Okay, listen up. You’ve been staring at these walls for almost two days now, and frankly, it’s making you weird. Also sad. Both of which James would find unacceptable.”

A pause.

“So, what do you say? You up for taking a little ride with me to visit your lazy-ass boyfriend?”

The room goes very still.

For a second, I stare at him, afraid to trust what I think he’s saying.

“What?” My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to.

He gives me a look.

“You heard me.”

“But the doctors said—”

“The doctors,” he interrupts, “are lovely people who also dramatically underestimate our collective talent for ignoring authority.”

I just sit there staring at him, too stunned to respond.

He huffs in mock annoyance, looking up at the ceiling like he’s asking God for patience.

“Annelly. You’re dating James. That automatically makes you adjacent to criminal behavior and deeply questionable decision-making.”

“He’s not a criminal.”

He lifts a brow.

I pause.

“…anymore.”

“Thank you.” He settles back like we’ve resolved something important. “More specifically, by dating him, you are now an honorary member of the Black Knights Crew.”

I frown. “The what?”

He stares at me. Actually stares. Then he slowly drags a hand down his face like the revelation of my ignorance has caused him physical pain.

“Unbelievable. I swear to God, if that man survives getting shot, I’m going to have to take my turn. His complete failure in onboarding you properly is unforgivable.”

I can’t help it. I laugh again.

It’s the way he’s acting. The utter seriousness in his voice over something so ridiculous.

I’m confused, exhausted, and somehow still incredibly amused.

He points at me accusingly.

“This is not funny. There has been a catastrophic failure in orientation procedures, and there must be consequences. When he wakes up, he and I are going to have words.”

“Zeb,” I say, still laughing, “hurry up and explain. What are you talking about?”

He exhales like a man burdened by James’s incompetence.

“The Black Knights. Me, James, Owen. Former delinquents, Ben’s favorite collection of legal liabilities. It’s why Dominick pretends to hate us, but we all know he’s emotionally invested and secretly jealous.”

“O-kay…”

“Ben likes to pretend he rescued us out of the goodness of his heart. He did not.” Zeb leans back in the chair, folding his arms. “He saw each of us as a project. Problems he thought he could fix. Let’s just say we’ve spent enough years disappointing him that he’s mostly given up on that pipe dream.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself.

“And now,” he says, pointing at me again, “through your extremely poor romantic choices, you have been drafted.”

“Drafted?”

“You’re one of us. No take-backs. No appeals. We meet never, communicate badly, and survive primarily through sarcasm, Ben and Dominick’s death glares, and our mutual love of pushing boundaries.”

I laugh so hard my ribs protest, and I wince.

Immediately, his expression shifts.

“Easy.”

His hand half lifts like he might reach for me, then stops, dropping back to his lap instead.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” I take a careful breath, pressing my hand to my side. “I’m okay.”

“Good. Anyway. Membership in our little crew comes with certain benefits.”

“Such as?”

He stands.

“Rule one: we do not ask permission. Ever. It makes no sense when you can just ask for forgiveness later.”

I stare at him.

Then I watch him walk out of the room, only to come back a second later pushing an empty wheelchair like he’s unveiling something amazing.

My mouth curves into a smile.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You stole that?”

“I prefer the term borrowed. Indefinitely.”

“Oh my gosh, Zeb.” I laugh softly, grabbing my side, trying not to aggravate the dull ache in my ribs.

He parks it beside my bed.

“Trust me, I’ve committed significantly worse crimes just since breakfast. Now get in the chair, Annelly.”

I stare at him.

At the wheelchair.

At the reckless, ridiculous, impossible hope rising so fast in my chest, it almost hurts.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“What if someone stops us?”

He shrugs. “Then we lie. Convincingly. It’s actually one of my best qualities. Ask Ben.”

My throat tightens so suddenly I have to look away. Because beneath all of his jokes and sarcasm, I know he’s doing this for me.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

He groans like I’ve personally offended him.

“We’ve discussed this. I’m a selfish bastard. I’m doing this entirely for self-preservation.”

A watery laugh escapes me. “Noted.”

“Good.” He steps behind the chair, hands settling on the handles. “Now let’s go, rebel. Let’s go break some rules.”

A few minutes later, I’m in the wheelchair, hospital blanket over my lap, IV pole rolling beside us as Zeb casually pushes me down the hallway like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Every turn feels like we’re getting away with something. Every second feels like my heart is beating harder.

Because I’m about to see him.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and Zeb wheels me inside before anyone can question either of us.

The doors close.

For the first time in thirty-six hours, hope feels close enough to touch.

I grip the blanket tighter in my lap, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes.

“Thank you,” I whisper. This time, there’s no joke in it. Just truth.

He leans against the elevator wall, arms folded.

“You seriously need to quit that. I already explained, I’m only doing this to protect myself from future bodily harm.”

I laugh softly through the tears.

“Of course.”

“When he wakes up, you better make damn sure you emphasize how heroic I was. I want the full dramatic retelling. I want him informed that I went above and beyond. I expect praise. Possibly financial compensation. We both know the rich bastard can afford it.”

My smile widens.

The elevator ride feels both too long and not long enough. Every floor we pass tightens something in my chest. By the time the doors finally slide open onto the ICU, I can barely breathe.

The hallway is quieter here.

Different from the rest of the hospital.

Everything is softer somehow—voices lowered, footsteps careful, machines humming behind closed doors like the entire floor exists in a suspended space between hope and grief.

It feels sacred.

And terrifying.

Zeb doesn’t say anything as he pushes me forward. For once, even he seems to understand that this moment doesn’t need words. Or maybe he just knows I’m too close to falling apart again.

Probably both.

We stop outside a closed door at the far end of the hall. My hands tighten around the blanket in my lap so hard my knuckles ache.

For a second, I can’t move.

This is it.

For thirty-six hours, I’ve wanted nothing but this.

To see him.

To see for myself that he’s still alive. Still here. Still with me.

But now that I’m here, fear hits harder than I expected.

Because wanting to see him and being ready to see him are apparently not the same thing.

What if he looks worse?

What if I walk in there and he feels farther away somehow?

What if seeing him makes this real in a way I still haven’t let it be?

Zeb steps around the chair and crouches in front of me, forcing me to look at him.

“Hey.” His voice quiet and steady.

I blink hard through the tears building behind my eyes.

“He’s still breathing. Still fighting. And if you go in there and lose your ever-loving mind, I will absolutely judge you for it. But I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

A shaky laugh breaks free.

His mouth twitches.

“Nell.” He pauses. “If you’re wondering if you’re strong enough to do this…” He gives one small nod. “The answer is yes. You absolutely can.”

I swallow hard.

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

No joke. No deflection. Just the truth.

And somehow, that helps.

I take a slow breath. Then another. And nod.

Zeb stands, resting a hand briefly on my shoulder before he reaches for the door.

And then he opens it.

And pushes me inside.

The room is dim, lit mostly by monitors and the weak gray light filtering through the window.

For a second, I don’t see anything clearly.

Just shapes. Machines. Shadows.

And then—there he is.

James.

Everything inside me stops.

Because no matter how much I thought I had prepared myself, nothing could have made seeing him like this any easier.

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally FREE .

Just hit “Follow” on REAM to get early access without needing to subscribe. You’ll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

# Chapter 43

Annelly

The second Zeb wheels me fully into the room, the fragile thread holding me together snaps.

For one terrible, suspended moment, I can't breathe.

James.

The man lying in that hospital bed looks nothing like the one I know.

Nothing like the man who fills every room he walks into. The man who carries danger in his bones and safety in his hands. The man whose voice can calm the worst parts of me with nothing more than my name.

This version of him is too still.

Too pale.

Machines breathe and beep around him, each sound a reminder that his body is doing things it shouldn't have to fight this hard to do. Bruises shadow his skin. Bandages disappear beneath the thin hospital blanket. Tubes. Wires. Evidence of everything his body survived.

Of everything it almost didn't.

My chest caves under the weight of it.

Because seeing him like this brings it all rushing back.

All the blood. The frantic car ride to the hospital. Zeb and Lucas fighting to keep his heart beating. The seven hours of surgery. The endless hours of waiting, desperate just to see him.

And now this.

Seeing the strongest man I know reduced to something so heartbreakingly fragile feels wrong.

Terrifying even.

Because if a man like James can be brought down like this, what hope do the rest of us have?

Zeb says nothing. He just pushes me closer. Then closer. Until I'm right beside the bed. Until I can finally reach out and touch him.

My hands shake when I lift them to do just that. 

I don't realize I'm crying until the tears hit our joined hands.

His skin is warm.

Thank God.

That he's warm means he's still here. Still fighting. It means help didn't come too late.

The second my fingers wrap around his, something inside me gives way completely.

A broken sound escapes me, and I bow forward, pressing my forehead against the back of his hand like a prayer.

Like worship.

Like if I hold on tightly enough, I can somehow will him to keep fighting.

Behind me, I feel Zeb step closer. His hand settles briefly on my shoulder, a quiet reminder that I'm not alone, before he steps back again, giving me the space and privacy to fall apart.

That's all it takes.

All the fear I've been swallowing for days rises at once, choking and burning, until I finally give in to it.

In a rush of painful, helpless sobs, I cry for the moment he fell.

For all the blood he lost.

For the sound of my own screaming as he lay there bleeding out, still worrying more about me than himself.

Most of all, I cry for the look in his eyes when he thought he had failed me, when he hadn't. When all he had ever done was save me.

I cry because I love him. 

Because I almost lost him. 

Because I still might.

And because no matter how hard I try, I cannot stop replaying the moment Victor got the better of me. The moment that gave him the chance to pull that trigger. The moment everything changed.

My fingers tighten around his.

"I'm here," I whisper, the words barely making it through the tears still choking me. "I'm here, James."

My voice cracks apart, but I keep talking anyway because he needs to hear it. He needs to know he isn't alone.

"I'm sorry it took me so long. They wouldn't let me come. No matter how much I begged."

I drag in a shaky breath that does nothing to steady me.

"But Zeb... thankfully, he has absolutely no respect for rules or hospital policy, which is how I finally made it."

A wet, broken laugh slips out of me, tangled with another sob.

"Which is another reason you have to get better," I whisper, wiping uselessly at my face. "Someone has to make sure he doesn't fully corrupt me."

God, I sound insane.

But maybe that's okay.

Maybe surviving something like this and coming out sane would be the real miracle.

I press my lips softly to his knuckles and close my eyes, breathing him in like I can somehow hold myself together if I just stay close enough.

"Please," I whisper. "Please come back to me, James. I need you."

My throat tightens so hard it burns.

"Our life together..." My voice breaks again, thinner this time. "We were just getting started."

I readjust my grip on his hand, using both of mine now, holding on tighter like if I let go, something terrible will happen. Like this, right here, is the only way I can breathe. 

Because there's something poisonous building inside me. A truth so painful, so terrifying, I can barely force it past my lips.

"And now you're hurt. And I..." I shake my head, crying harder. "I killed him, James."

The words leave me in a shattered whisper.

"Oh, God... I killed him."

The confession hangs between us, devastating and final.

"And now I don't know." I press my forehead harder against his hand, like maybe he can still anchor me. "I don't know how to get through this without you. I don't even know if I can. So please..."

I close my eyes tighter, but it doesn't stop the memories from coming.

His hands on me.

His voice.

The smell of whiskey on his breath.

And then all the blood.

The fear.

The gun.

"You have to get better," I whisper, crying openly now, beyond trying to stop it. "You have to wake up."

My thumb brushes slowly over his knuckles, tracing the familiar lines of his hand, the scars that tell the story of everything he's survived.

I press my lips to his skin again, lingering there, taking a second to pull myself back together. To force all that terror behind walls I'm still trying, and failing, to rebuild.

"I keep replaying it," I whisper. "Over and over. Every second. Every different version of what I could have done. What I should have done. If I had fought harder sooner... if I had seen it coming..."

My voice breaks, and I have to stop, swallowing around the sob threatening to rise again.

"If I hadn't let him get that close to me, maybe none of this would've happened." My grip tightens. "Maybe you wouldn't be lying here because of me."

The guilt is a living thing.

It breathes. It claws. It sits in the center of my chest and refuses to let me rest.

I press his hand tighter against my forehead.

"I know what everyone keeps saying," I whisper, my voice raw from crying. "That it isn't my fault. That I did what I had to do so we could both survive."

A shaky breath leaves me, unsteady and useless.

"And I know if I had to live through it all over again..." My throat tightens around the words. "I would do the exact same thing. I would pull that trigger every single time if it meant you lived."

Because that part is easy. That part has never been in question.

I would burn the whole world down for this man. I would choose him. Every time. In every lifetime.

But knowing that doesn't make it easier. 

It doesn't make the blood staining my hands disappear.

It doesn't quiet the part of me that still feels like something inside me was corrupted the moment I pulled that trigger.

"I'm not sorry he's dead," I admit, and even now, saying it aloud feels wrong. Like a confession without repentance. "And I think that's what's killing me. That I know I should be sorry... but I'm not."

Another tear slips free.

"And that scares me."

Silence answers me.

Soft machines. Steady breathing. The warmth of his hand in mine.

And somehow, I keep talking like he can hear me. Like maybe some part of him is still here with me, listening. 

Because if there is anyone in this world who could pull this poison out of me, it's him.

"It's what scares me most," I whisper. "Not that I killed him... but that there's a part of me that would welcome the chance to do it again. Without hesitation."

I lift my head just enough to look at him.

At the man who understands better than anyone what it means to carry the weight of survival at any cost. The man who has spent so much of his life trying to make peace with the broken parts of himself.

That's how I know he would understand.

"I don't know what that says about me. I don't know how to reconcile it."

My fingers tighten around his again.

"But I know what you'd say." My voice trembles. "You'd tell me you were proud of me for what I did. And then you'd say something annoyingly wise, somehow still sweet, and make me cry even harder."

A tear slips down my cheek.

I let out something between a laugh and another broken sob.

My voice softens.

"And God... I need you to wake up and do exactly that. I need you to look me in the eyes and tell me I'm not broken."

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
You'll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 44

Annelly

A soft knock at the door startles me, breaking the fragile stillness.

I blink, lifting my head, disoriented for half a second before reality settles back in.

And with it, the sudden awareness of where I am.

That Zeb is still here.

He’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, watching the room with the kind of careful silence that tells me he’s been standing guard. Giving me space. Pretending not to witness me falling apart.

For all his sharp edges and sarcasm, I’m starting to realize Zeb protects people best when he acts like he isn’t protecting them at all.

The second I look at him, one brow lifts.

“You done, or should I go find a violinist and really commit to the pity-party vibe?”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, wet and broken, but real.

If I weren’t used to the sarcastic way these men show love, I’d probably be offended by what sounds like indifference. But knowing what I know, that he’s treating me like one of the guys instead of handling me with kid gloves, is strangely comforting.

“And… she’s back,” he mutters, rolling his eyes playfully, like the emotional roller coaster I’m on is driving him crazy.

Before I can respond, the knock comes again, and this time the door opens.

A woman in navy scrubs steps inside, tablet in hand and a warm, practiced smile already in place.

“Hi there,” she says softly. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m Claire, James’s nurse. I just wanted to check on him real quick.”

I quickly wipe at my face, trying—and failing—to look like I haven’t just been having a full emotional collapse at his bedside.

“I’m Annelly,” I manage. “His… girlfriend.”

Claire’s smile softens.

“I figured.”

From behind me, Zeb steps forward.

“And I’m Zeb. His loyal and significantly better-looking best friend.”

Claire laughs politely, offering him a warm smile, and I swear I can feel him taking that as a personal victory.

“Nice to meet you both,” she says, moving toward the monitors. “Do either of you have any questions?”

Yes.

A million of them.

But only one matters.

“When will he wake up?”

Claire glances at me, her expression gentle.

“Right now, the doctors want to keep him sedated for another twenty-four to forty-eight hours. His body went through a lot, and they want to give him the best chance to rest and start healing before they reduce the medication.”

I nod, trying to absorb that through the panic already rising again.

“And after that?”

“If everything continues progressing the way it has been, they’ll start bringing him out of sedation, and he should wake fairly quickly after.”

If.

Such a small word for something that feels this massive.

I swallow hard.

“Is he going to be okay?”

There it is.

The question I’ve been asking everyone. The one no one has really answered.

Claire reaches over to adjust something near his IV before looking back at me.

“So far, he’s doing better than expected. His vitals are strong. The surgery went well. We’re cautiously optimistic.”

Cautiously optimistic.

It isn’t certainty.

But right now, it feels like everything.

Exactly what I need.

I lower my gaze back to James, holding onto those words like they’re a lifeline.

Beside me, Zeb clears his throat.

“When they start waking him up,” he says, all humor gone now, his voice steady and serious, “someone needs to come get her. She’s in room 4226. She needs to be here.”

The emotion hits so fast it steals my breath.

That he’s thinking of me. Of James. Of the promise he made.

It’s yet another quiet reminder of what Zeb would rather no one notice, that beneath all the sarcasm and sharp edges, he is just as protective, just as loyal, and just as selfless as the rest of them.

Claire nods immediately.

“I’ll make a note of it.”

“Good,” Zeb says. “Because if he wakes up and realizes we let him do that dramatic hospital awakening scene without her here, he’ll kill me. Or at least hurt me. And I’m far too pretty to be used as a punching bag.”

“And… he’s back,” I mutter, throwing his own words back at him as a small smile pulls at my lips.

Claire smiles too, even without understanding our inside joke, and finishes checking the monitors.

“Well, for now, he’s resting exactly how we want him to. Try not to worry too much. Everything so far is going exactly as expected.”

Try not to worry.

I almost laugh at that.

Sure.

Like that’s even possible after everything that brought us here.

Instead, I just nod.

“Thank you.”

After she leaves, Zeb exhales beside me.

“Well. Good news is, Sleeping Beauty lives. Bad news is, I’m apparently still stuck on Annelly-sitting duty.”

I look at him and smile.

“I see right through you, you know.”

“What?” Though he fights the smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes gives him away.

“You pretend to hate watching over me, but I can tell I’m growing on you.”

He scoffs, the sound almost like a laugh before he pulls it back. Whatever smartass remark he’s about to make gets cut off by the sound of his phone.

He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen, and smiles.

“Oh oh… you’ve really done it this time, Nell. You are in trouble,” he singsongs. “Better say goodbye to our bullet-riddled friend here. We have to get you back before Ben sends out the search parties.”

My stomach drops, and with it comes another wave of sadness.

The thought of leaving him.

Alone.

It shatters something inside me.

I lean forward one last time, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles before carefully laying his hand back against the blanket.

For a moment, I take him in.

The man I love. The man who somehow became my home, my center, without either of us realizing when it happened.

“You better wake up soon,” I whisper, brushing my fingers once more across his hand. “Because I have plans for us. And unfortunately for you, they involve you being alive. Healthy and whole.”

My smile trembles.

“And also because I’m pretty sure Zeb is one inconvenience away from taking a shot at you himself.”

From behind me, Zeb snorts.

“Can you blame me? All these extra hours I’m putting in, handling his woman while he just lies there like a lazy princess.”

A quiet laugh slips out of me.

“See what I mean?” I ask him, as if he can hear us.

Then, with careful effort, I push myself to my feet on shaky legs and lean down, pressing my forehead gently against the side of his face.

One last prayer.

One last promise.

“Come back to me,” I whisper. “That’s all I’m asking. I love you.”

For one impossible second, I swear I feel it.

The faintest pressure against the hand still holding his. A movement so small I almost miss it.

I freeze.

My heart stops.

I lift my head, staring at our joined hands.

“James?”

Nothing.

No movement. No sign. Just the steady hum of machines and the frantic pounding of my own pulse.

I swallow hard, tears stinging all over again.

Maybe I imagined it.

Maybe I didn’t.

But hope, fragile and trembling, blooms anyway.

And for right now, that’s enough.

Zeb steps forward, gentler than he’d ever admit to being.

“All right, Romeo. Time to let Juliet go so I can return her to her room before hospital security gets alerted.”

I let him help guide me back into the wheelchair, my hand lingering on James’s for as long as physically possible before I finally let go.

Leaving feels wrong. Like tearing something out of my chest all over again. But unlike before, this time it doesn’t feel hopeless. This time, I’m leaving with something I didn’t have before.

My belief in him.

And the peace that comes with knowing that, at least for now, he’s still here. Still getting better.

The ride back to my room is quieter. Not because Zeb doesn’t have anything to say—he always has something to say—but because he seems to understand I need the silence. Need the space to process. To slowly piece myself back together.

When we get back to my room, Ben is there.

Waiting.

The second we round the corner, his gaze locks onto Zeb, and if looks could kill, Zeb would be in very serious trouble.

Zeb, naturally, acts like he doesn’t notice. Like we’re just returning from a perfectly innocent stroll through the hospital.

“Oh, hey, Ben,” he says casually, helping maneuver the chair and my IV pole through the door. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Ben folds his arms across his chest, the scowl on his face somehow sinking even deeper.

“She was not cleared to leave her room, asshole.”

“Oh, really?” Zeb says. “That’s not what she said.”

“Hey,” I say, unable to hide the smile tugging at my mouth.

“Bullshit,” Ben says at the same time.

“Look, in my defense, she has excellent negotiation skills. I swear on the pastrami sandwich I’m not about to go downstairs and eat, she tricked me.”

Despite everything, I laugh.

“Ben, it’s okay. It was my fault. He was just trying to help.”

Ben’s expression softens the tiniest amount as he and Zeb help me back into bed.

“That may be true,” he says quietly, “but he should know better. Which is exactly why I’m blaming him instead of you.”

Zeb points at him.

“See? Break a few rules every now and again, and suddenly they blame you for everything. It isn’t right.”

Ben shoots death daggers in his direction while adjusting my blanket like I’m a child.

Even the tension between them feels like love. Like brothers. Like men who would go to the ends of the earth for each other, even if they fight like siblings the entire way there.

It makes me smile.

But when Ben looks back at me, his expression shifts.

The humor fades.

And just like that, reality comes crashing back.

“We’re just worried about you, Nell. Your mom and Emilia have been calling nonstop.”

My chest tightens.

Of course they have.

After everything, I should’ve expected it. But somehow, between the rescue and James almost dying, the outside world stopped being important.

“They want to come see you.” He pauses. “But I thought I should ask first. Do you want them to come? And as for your mom… how much do you want her to know?”

A few months ago, my answer would’ve been easy.

Tell her nothing.

Smile. Lie. Pretend I’m fine.

Protect myself from further shame by carrying the truth about Victor Bastille, and everything that came with him, alone.

But I’m so tired.

Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending my past didn’t happen.

And after everything—after what I almost lost, from James, to Tyler, to Dominick, and even my mother, who was almost taken—I don’t want secrets anymore.

I look down at my hands. My arms. The bruises. The fading evidence of everything Victor did.

“Tell her everything,” I say quietly. “I want her to know.”

Ben studies me for a second, like he’s making sure I mean it.

Then he nods once.

“Okay.”

A strange kind of peace settles over me.

Not comfort, exactly.

Just… relief.

Like maybe telling the truth is its own kind of survival.

Ben exhales slowly.

“There’s something else.”

Of course there is.

“The FBI and NYPD need to talk to you. About Bastille. About how you got to the club. About the shooting.”

The thought of reliving it—of putting it all into words for strangers who might judge, who might draw the wrong conclusions about me… about James—should send me into a panic.

Strangely, it doesn’t.

Maybe because after everything else—the fear, the terror, the shame—I’m simply too tired for panic.

“Am I in trouble? For killing him?”

“No,” his answer comes fast. “No one is in trouble.”

I search his face anyway.

“What about James? Zeb? Everything that happened?”

Ben shakes his head.

“Owen made sure Bastille’s surveillance stayed untouched after everything went down. It caught all of it. Victor bringing you there. What happened before James got to you. James coming in. You defending yourself. The shootings. And the lengths they went to get you both out.”

Proof.

Truth.

Protection.

“You tell them exactly what happened,” he says. “Nothing more, nothing less. The truth is enough.”

I let out a slow breath, one that comes easier than all the ones before it.

For the first time in weeks, it feels like we might be turning a corner. Like maybe things are finally shifting into something that resembles normal.

Not yet, though.

Because outside this room, there are still questions waiting to be answered.

Police.

FBI.

My mother.

Consequences.

James.

Tyler.

But here, for now, there is still hope.

James is alive.

He’s still fighting.

And for the first time since all of this began, hope feels stronger than fear.

❤️

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# Chapter 45

Annelly

Ten hours.

That's how long it's been since they stopped the medication keeping James sedated.

Ten hours of waiting for him to wake up. Of watching every flicker beneath his eyelids, every slight shift of his fingers, every change in the rhythm of the monitors beside his bed, like somehow I can force meaning into sounds I barely understand.

And still... nothing.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of machines and the muted spill of city lights beyond the window. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattles past. A voice murmurs. Footsteps echo, then fade.

But in here, time barely moves.

I sit curled in the chair beside his bed, exhaustion wrapped so tightly around my body it feels stitched into my bones. My neck aches. My head throbs. My eyes burn from too many sleepless nights and too many tears I stopped trying to hide hours ago.

My gaze drifts over him again, tracing every part of him the way I have a thousand times these past few days.

The bruising. 

The bandages. 

The tubes. 

The steady rise and fall of his chest.

He's alive.
 

Thank God for that.

But this version of him still doesn't feel real to me.

James has always felt larger than life somehow. Too stubborn. Too strong. Too relentless to ever look breakable. Even after everything Victor put us through, after the blood, the chaos, the sound of gunfire still haunting my sleep, some part of me believed he'd open his eyes and come back to me immediately.

Instead, I've spent the last ten hours drowning in silence.

My fingers tighten around his hand, careful of the IV taped to his skin.

"I'm starting to think you're enjoying making me suffer," I whisper, my voice rough from disuse. "For breaking my promise. For giving myself up to him. For putting myself between you and that gun."

I swallow hard.

"Which feels a little unfair... considering I already had to sit there and watch you almost die."

The words try to sound teasing but fall apart halfway through.

Emotion climbs into my throat so fast I have to look away.

God, I miss him.

Not just the big things. Not just his voice or the way he looks at me like I'm something precious.

I miss the small things.

The warmth of him beside me. The way he touches me constantly, without even realizing it. The stupid little comments he makes when he notices I'm overthinking again.

And the way the word "Snowflake" from his lips has somehow become my favorite sound in the world.

Another hour passes on the clock beside the bed.

Or maybe it's less.

I honestly don't know anymore.

The waiting has blurred everything together into one endless stretch of fear and exhaustion.

The doctors keep telling me this is normal. That sometimes the body needs more time after trauma this severe.

But fear doesn't care about logic. Fear only whispers the same thoughts over and over again.

What if he doesn't come back completely?

What if he's never the same?

Before I can stop myself, my thumb brushes gently across his knuckles.

"You better wake up soon," I whisper shakily. "Because I don't know how much longer I can do this."

A soft knock breaks the silence.

Claire steps into the room, tablet in hand, a tired but kind smile already in place.

"There she is," she says gently when she sees me still planted beside his bed. "I'm glad your doctor cleared you to be here with him."

Normally, I'd try to smile.

Right now, I barely manage a slight lift of my lips.

Claire's expression softens as she moves toward the monitors, checking numbers and IV lines with practiced ease.

"How's he doing?" I ask quietly.

"Vitals still look good. No concerns so far." She glances at James, then back to me. "He's waking gradually, which is what we want after everything his body's been through."

"But it's been almost eleven hours."

Almost double what they said it would take.

"I know." Her voice stays calm. "But longer doesn't mean something's wrong. Some patients wake quickly. Others just need more time."

I nod like I understand. Like what she's saying somehow helps.

It doesn't.

None of it does.

Claire studies me for a second longer before lowering her voice. "Have you slept at all?"

"A little."

The lie must be obvious because one brow lifts knowingly.

"Annelly," she says gently, "you can't keep running on fumes like this."

A hollow laugh almost escapes me.

I want to ask her how I'm supposed to sleep while the person I love lies unconscious in a hospital bed fighting for his life.

Instead, I just look back at James.

"Okay." She moves toward the corner of the room, grabbing the cart one of the nurses left behind earlier. "It's your turn. Let's check your vitals."

She starts with the blood pressure cuff, adjusting it twice before the machine begins to buzz. After that, she moves efficiently, checking my temperature, my IV site, and jotting quick notes on the tablet in her hand.

Then she presses a fresh bottle of water into my palm.

"If you want to stay with him, you need to take care of yourself too," she says. "Rest and hydration are the most important things right now. With any luck, your doctors think you'll be discharged in the next day or two."

I nod, taking a small sip before screwing the cap back on.

"Thanks."

My eyes never leave James.

"Annelly..." She pauses, like she's making sure I'm actually listening, before offering me a gentle smile. "He's doing well. Take a deep breath. Have a little faith."

The simple certainty in her voice nearly undoes me.

She gives my shoulder one last squeeze before stepping back toward the door.

"Keep talking to him," she says softly. "Hearing the voice of someone they love can help bring them back faster."

After she leaves, the room feels too quiet all over again.

I stare at him for a long moment.

At the steady rise and fall of his chest. At the stillness that no longer feels peaceful... only wrong.

I can't do this anymore.

The distance. The waiting. Sitting here beside him, trying to convince myself this is somehow okay.

It's not.

Before I can second-guess myself, I push slowly to my feet.

Every movement feels awkward thanks to the soreness still lingering through my body, but I ignore it as I move carefully around the bed. Around wires and tubing and machines that hum softly in the background like they've become part of the air itself.

"Don't yell at me," I whisper quietly to him. "I know I'm probably not supposed to do this. But you heard her... she did say I need to rest."

Very carefully, I ease myself into the narrow space beside him.

The mattress dips beneath my weight.

For one terrifying second, I brace for an alarm to go off, a rush of nurses flooding the room.

Nothing happens.

Just... his warmth.

And God, the second I settle against him, something inside me gives way.

My eyes burn instantly as I rest my head carefully against his shoulder, my arm sliding gently across his stomach as I work around the cables attached to him. Even through the thin hospital blanket and layers of bandaging, he still feels like James.

Still feels like home.

A shaky breath leaves me as I close my eyes, threading my fingers carefully through his.

"I miss you," I whisper, the words barely making it out. "I miss you so much it actually hurts."

Emotion climbs into my throat so fast I have to stop, forcing myself to breathe through it. I inhale deeply, searching past the sterile hospital smell for something that's still him.

And I find it.

Warmth. Familiarity. Him.

It makes everything hurt more.

"I miss hearing you call me Snowflake," I admit softly, tears slipping silently onto his shoulder. "And the way you smile at me. The way you touch me every five seconds like you can't believe I'm real... like you're scared I'll disappear."

My fingers tighten carefully around his hand.

"Please wake up," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Please."

For a long moment, nothing happens.

Then—

The faintest twitch against my palm.

I go completely still.

My breath catches so hard it hurts as I lift my head, just enough to look at our joined hands.

"James?"

Another tiny movement.

Weak. Uncoordinated.

But real.

Hope crashes into me. 

A sob breaks free as I press a trembling kiss against his shoulder.

"That's it," I whisper shakily. "That's it, baby. Keep fighting."

My forehead falls back against his shoulder as exhaustion finally starts pulling me under.

For the first time in days, I don't feel cold.

I just feel him.

The steady warmth of his body beside mine. The slow rhythm of his breathing. The fragile, impossible comfort of knowing he's still here.

Still fighting his way back to me.

Somewhere between one breath and the next... sleep finally claims me.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
You'll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 46

Annelly

I don’t know how long I sleep curled up against him.

Long enough for my body to finally give in to exhaustion. Long enough for the constant ache behind my eyes to dull into something softer.

But even asleep, some part of me stays aware of him. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The warmth of his body against mine. The feel of his hand resting loosely in my own.

It’s that hand that wakes me.

Not a twitch this time.

A grip.

My eyes flutter open slowly, still caught somewhere between sleep and reality as my mind struggles to catch up. For one brief, disoriented moment, I forget where I am. Then the steady hum of machines and the antiseptic smell of the hospital rush back all at once.

And so does the feel of his fingers tightening around mine.

My breath catches.

Slowly, I lift my head from James’s shoulder.

To my utter shock, his eyes are open.

For a second, I can only stare at him.

At the crystal blue eyes I’ve spent days begging to see again. Still hazy in the dim light, unfocused and heavy with confusion.

But open.

Awake.

Emotion hits me so hard it steals the air from my lungs.

“James…” His name breaks apart as it leaves me.

His gaze drifts across my face like he’s trying to piece reality together through sheer force of will. A second later, his breathing shifts, uneven and unsteady, as awareness begins to settle in.

Confusion sharpens first.

Then fear.

I feel it in the way his body tenses beside me.

The panic builds fast after that.

His eyes dart weakly around the room, trying to orient himself, trying to understand where he is, and for one horrifying second, I see it.

The terror threatening to take hold.

“Hey…” I push myself up quickly, one hand immediately finding his face. “Hey, it’s okay. Baby, look at me.”

His gaze snaps back to mine so fast it hurts to see.

There’s nothing calm about the way he looks at me.

It’s desperate.

Like he’s still trapped somewhere inside the nightmare, and I’m the only thing tethering him to reality.

“I’m here,” I whisper, tears already spilling down my face. “You’re okay. We got out. You got me out. We’re safe… we’re safe.”

His breathing stutters sharply.

The second my thumb brushes across his cheek, something in him shifts. The panic doesn’t disappear, not even close, but it loosens its hold just enough for him to breathe through it.

“There you are…” I smile through the tears, my voice shaking. “I’m so happy to see you.”

He lifts his hand, his fingers tightening around mine, trembling with weakness but holding on with quiet urgency.

“I need to call for the nurse,” I say softly. “So I’m going to need my hand back, okay?”

He shakes his head subtly, his eyes searching mine like he’s trying to decide if it’s safe. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, I’ll disappear.

“It’s just for a second,” I breathe. “I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

The panic doesn’t completely fade, but he loosens his grip enough to let me go.

Only then do I reach for the call button, moving carefully over him to reach it on the other side of the bed.

The reaction is immediate.

Within minutes, the quiet is gone, replaced by movement, voices, footsteps. The sharp shift from stillness to urgency sends a fresh wave of tension through him.

His body tightens beside me.

When I’m asked to step back to give them room, his hand finds mine again, gripping tighter as panic surges through him so visibly it knocks the breath from my lungs.

“I’m not leaving,” I promise quickly, leaning closer. “James, look at me. I’ll be here the whole time. They just need to make sure you’re okay.”

It takes a second.

Then two.

Before his gaze steadies again, and he releases me.

Even as I climb off the bed, giving the doctors full access to him, he doesn’t look away. The intensity of it nearly undoes me all over again.

There’s a desperation there, like he needs to see me. Needs proof I’m still here.

The fear doesn’t disappear.

But it narrows.

Focuses.

Centers on me.

Around us, the room keeps moving.

Gloves snap into place. Equipment shifts. Voices layer over each other in low, controlled urgency.

“Respiratory’s here.”

“Vitals are stable. We’re good to proceed.”

“James, I’m Doctor Bomze. We’re going to start removing the breathing tube. Just try to stay calm.”

He doesn’t look at them.

He doesn’t respond.

His entire world stays fixed on me.

“Okay. Here we go. James, I’m going to count to three. At two, you’re going to take a deep breath for me. Then at three, you’re going to cough. You ready?”

He nods, his eyes still locked on mine.

“One… two, deep breath. Good. Three, now cough for me.”

The moment he coughs, the tube is removed, and the pain hits him hard.

I see it in the way his face tightens, in the sharp pull of his brows, in the helpless tension that ripples through his body as he fights to breathe, to stop coughing, to understand what’s happening.

My stomach twists like I can feel it too, and I clutch my middle as he does the same.

God, I hate this.

Hate that he has to wake up like this. That one of the first things he feels, after everything he went through, is pain.

But as much as I want to look away, I don’t.

Because I promised him I’d stay. That I’d endure every second of this with him so he wouldn’t have to face it alone. Just like he did for me, when it was Victor on top of me, determined to hurt me.

I stay right where I am at the foot of his bed, my hand anchored to his feet beneath the blanket, my voice low and steady even as tears slip down my face.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

It feels endless.

Like torture.

His body fighting to cough, to breathe, to stop coughing all at once. His hands moving frantically from his abdomen to his chest, every place that must hurt.

And then, finally, it begins to ease.

The room shifts again, the urgency softening as the staff moves with calmer purpose, removing what tubes and wires they can, adjusting what remains, watching him closely as his body works to breathe on its own.

Rough, unsteady breaths.

“Don’t worry. This is normal,” Claire says quietly beside me.

I hear her. I do. And some part of me is grateful she’s here, steady and calm in a moment like this.

But I can’t look at her. I can’t even nod.

Because all I see is him.

Because through it all, his eyes never leave mine.

Not once.

Crystal blue. Glossed with emotion that makes my throat constrict.

A doctor says something nearby. Someone asks him a question. Another set of hands moves near his shoulder.

None of it seems to register.

Not to him.

Because in the middle of everything—noise, movement, pain, reality crashing back in—I’m the only thing holding his focus.

The only thing he sees.

My chest aches as I take him in.

The fear still lingering in his eyes. The exhaustion. The confusion. The relief.

All of it tangled together.

All of it real.

And it hits me all over again.

He’s here. Alive. But not untouched by what happened.

Victor may be gone, but like me, James didn’t walk away from this unscathed.

And that realization is terrifying.

What if after everything, we can’t find our way back from this?

What if things never go back to how they were?

As those thoughts begin to spiral, I see his throat work.

Then his lips part.

“Snow…flake.”

My breath shatters.

The sound of it—hoarse, rough, barely there—cuts through everything, silencing every doubt in my head.

For a second, I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but stare at him as tears spill freely down my face.

Because it hits me then.

This is the only truth that matters.

He’s here.

Awake.

Still fighting. Still holding on.

And for the first time, I can finally breathe.

Because as he looks at me, as he calls out to me, I understand something I didn’t before.

As long as we’re together, I don’t care if things are ever the same.

All I want… is him.

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally FREE .

Just hit “Follow” on REAM to get early access without needing to subscribe. You’ll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

# Chapter 47

James

"Snow...flake."

The word tears out of my throat like broken glass.

Pain follows immediately after it. Sharp. Brutal. Dragging through my chest and ribs hard enough that black spots crowd the edges of my vision for a second.

But none of that matters.

Because she's here.

Alive.

My eyes lock onto hers as if looking away for even a second might somehow make her disappear again. The room around me feels wrong. Too bright. Too loud. Too cold. Voices overlap somewhere nearby, distorted beneath the steady hum of machines and the violent pounding of blood in my ears.

None of it fully registers.

Only her.

Green eyes flooded with tears. Pale skin. Shaking hands. The look on her face caught somewhere between devastation and relief.

This has to be real.

She has to be real.

Relief crashes into me so hard it nearly steals the air from my lungs.

But then, for one disorienting second, I can't separate what's happening right now from the memories.

Victor's gun.

Blood.

Annelly screaming my name.

The sound of my body hitting the ground.

Then her trapped beneath him.

My stomach twists violently.

The memories slam into me in fractured flashes, jagged and incomplete, but no less vicious for it. Her terrified face turning toward me while I lay there unable to fucking move. Victor's hands on her. His weight pinning her down. The certainty—absolute, soul-crushing certainty—that I was about to watch the woman I love be violated while I bled out uselessly on the other side of the room.

My chest constricts so hard I can barely breathe through it.

No.

No, no, no—

Panic claws violently up my throat.

But then she moves to my side, taking my hand in hers, and just like that, the nightmare loosens its grip enough for me to see her again.

Only her.

"I'm here," she whispers, tears spilling faster down her cheeks. "You're okay. You're going to be okay."

The sound of her voice cuts through the chaos in my head like a blade, and I latch onto it like a drowning man fighting to keep his head above water.

Her voice.

Her face.

Her eyes.

I cling to all three desperately, like they're the only things tethering me to reality right now.

Hands touch me again.

The doctors.

My chest. My shoulder. Something tugging near my neck.

I flinch instinctively.

"Easy, James," a male voice says somewhere to my left. "You're in the ICU. You've been through multiple surgeries and have been asleep for almost four days recovering and getting stronger. We just need to get you free of some of these tubes and wires so you can start feeling more like yourself. Just relax and try to stay calm while we finish."

ICU?

Surgeries?

The words feel disconnected somehow. Like they must be talking about somebody else because it couldn't possibly be me.

At some point during the chaos, they force Annelly to let go of my hand.

Instantly, panic surges back beneath my skin.

And to make matters worse, people keep moving between us, blocking my view of her, and every single time it happens, the panic spikes so violently it makes my fingers twitch against the bed.

I need her closer.

Need to touch her.

Need to feel her so I know she's actually here.

My breathing turns shallow almost immediately.

"James?" another voice says, this time a woman shining a light in my face. "Can you look at me?"

No.

I can't.

Don't they fucking get it?

Because if I look away from her, even for a second, I'm terrified I'll lose her all over again.

"James." Same voice, firmer this time. "Do you know your full name?"

Questions.

So many fucking questions.

Always with the questions.

Questions that don't even matter.

They keep talking to me, voices overlapping while hands continue checking monitors and adjusting wires attached to my body, but the words fracture apart before I can hold on to them long enough to process a response, let alone answer.

My body feels heavy.

Wrong.

Every breath burns.

Pain pulses through my chest, my ribs, my abdomen, deep and throbbing beneath the haze clouding my head.

But even that feels secondary compared to the panic crawling beneath my skin.

Because she's still too far away.

Then her eyes lock fully onto mine again, and just like that, the panic loosens enough for me to breathe.

My fingers twitch weakly against the blanket, reaching toward her before I even consciously realize what I'm doing.

Need.

Desperate, blinding need.

That's what this is.

I need Annelly the way a drowning man needs oxygen. The way my body needs air. Because right now she feels like the only thing standing between me and complete fucking collapse.

"No..." I rasp, my arms somehow finding the strength to push everyone away. Anyone who isn't her. "Stop..."

To my relief, they finally let her through.

Without hesitation, Annelly takes my hands in hers, interlacing our fingers together as she squeezes gently.

"I know," she whispers softly, like somehow she understands the storm tearing through my head. "I know, baby. I'm right here."

Baby.

Hearing her call me that damn near destroys me. The emotion swells so fast and viciously inside my chest, I have to fight through the sudden pressure burning behind my eyes.

I can't believe we're both still here.

Alive.

Victor failed.

He didn't take her from me.

The realization should calm me, but instead it cracks something open deep inside me because all I can see now is how close he came.

How close I let him come.

Because it was me.

My anger. My loss of control. 

Shame crashes into me so hard it makes me nauseous.

I should've protected her.

Should've stopped him.

Should've—

A sharp spike of pain suddenly tears through my abdomen, ripping a rough sound from my throat as my body tenses instinctively against the mattress.

"Easy," somebody says quickly nearby. "Don't fight us if you can. We're just checking your incisions. I know it hurts, but it's best if you relax."

Don't fight.

Relax.

The irony of those orders almost makes me laugh, because fighting is the only thing I know how to do, even if right now I can barely even lift my own damn arms.

Annelly's fingers tighten around mine instantly, like she feels the shift happening inside me.

And maybe she does.

Because the panic may have eased slightly now that she's touching me again, but something heavier is already beginning to crawl up beneath it.

My gaze drifts slowly across her face, searching for injuries I somehow missed before through the haze of panic and medication. 

Bruises. Cuts. Signs of what he did to her. 

What he almost did.

My stomach turns violently again.

Because now that my head is finally clearing enough to think beyond the immediate terror of losing her, the memories keep forcing themselves forward whether I want them to or not.

Victor's hands on her.

Her screaming.

Crying.

Begging.

The sound of her voice breaking as she called for me while I lay there bleeding out on the fucking floor, unable to move.

A rough sound catches in my throat.

Not because I got shot. Not because I almost died.

Because I failed her.

The realization tears through me viciously, ripping apart something deep in my chest I don't think I'll ever fully recover from.

I was supposed to keep her safe. That was the one thing that mattered. The promise I made to her. That no matter what happened, I would protect her with my life... or die trying.

And I failed.

Spectacularly.

My jaw tightens hard enough to hurt as fragments of memory continue slamming into me in brutal flashes.

Victor getting the upper hand because I lost control. Because I let my anger cloud my judgment. Because for one stupid fucking second, I stopped thinking like the man responsible for keeping everyone alive and started thinking like a man who wanted his revenge.

And they paid for it.

Annelly.

I close my eyes briefly as nausea rolls through me.

Jesus Christ.

Tyler.

The image of him bleeding in that trunk, bound and bloody, flashes through my head so vividly it nearly steals the air from my lungs again.

Then Annelly.

Terrified. Pinned beneath Victor while I couldn't do a damn thing except watch.

My fingers tighten around hers instinctively. Too damn tight.

A small sound leaves her lips, and immediately I loosen my grip despite the panic still clawing through me.

"I'm—I'm so sorry," I rasp automatically, my voice shredded and raw.

Her expression crumples instantly.

"No," she whispers fiercely, shaking her head as tears gather in her eyes again. "Don't do that."

Don't do what? Apologize?

The thought feels almost too absurd to process. 

Except she's still looking at me like I'm some savior. Like I'm someone worth loving. Worth believing in.

And I don't understand how that could possibly be. 

Not after what happened. Not after she had to save herself because I couldn't do it.

The memory slams into me all over again.

Her pulling that trigger.

Victor collapsing on top of her.

Blood and brain matter spraying across her.

Her eyes red and wide with shock as streaks of his blood dripped down her beautiful face.

Another wave of nausea crashes through me so violently this time, I have to fight not to vomit.

My God.

That she was forced to do that. 

Because of me. 

Because I failed so fucking completely she was forced to live through the trauma of taking that monster's life just to save us both.

My chest feels like it's caving in on itself.

"James." Her voice softens this time, trembling around the edges. "Hey... stay with me."

Stay with me.

I force my eyes back open. Back to hers.

Green. Warm. Shimmering with tears and still somehow so full of love.

But even now, with her sitting right here beside me, fingers threaded through mine, looking at me like I'm her hero instead of a man who's broken beyond repair, I can't stop the ugly truth unraveling inside my head.

I wasn't enough. Not when it mattered.

Just like with my mom.

Just like with Tyler.

And the worst part?

Annelly still looks at me like I'm someone worth saving. 

Even though she shouldn't.

And I fucking hate it.

❤️

 
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Chapter 48

James

“James,” a male voice to my right says as he brings more tubing toward my face. “Your oxygen levels are a little lower than we’d like, so we need to keep this on until things stabilize.” Then, turning slightly toward Annelly, he adds, “This is all normal. Just part of the process.”

As the nasal cannula settles against my face, something cold twists violently in my stomach.

Tyler.

The room seems to tilt beneath me.

Jesus Christ.

How could I forget?

The last time I saw him, he was bruised and swollen almost beyond recognition, lying motionless in a hospital bed while machines breathed for him.

The memory crashes into me, whole and ugly.

The ventilator forcing air into his lungs. The drains pulling blood-tinged fluid from his skull. Purple bruises smeared across pale skin. His body so still and cold it barely looked like him at all.

My chest tightens so fast I almost stop breathing.

And I left him there.

Left him hooked to those machines while he fought for his life alone.

Panic surges back through me instantly, hot and jagged beneath my skin.

“Tyler?” The word scrapes out of my throat raw enough to hurt. “My brother… where is he? Is he—”

I can’t force the rest out. My throat physically closes around the possibility before I can even say the words.

Annelly’s expression changes immediately.

Fear. Pain. Sadness.

But not devastation.

And somehow that tiny distinction becomes the only thing keeping me from completely fucking unraveling.

“He’s alright,” she says quickly, squeezing my hand tighter. “James… he’s alive.”

Alive.

My eyes close briefly as relief slams through me hard enough to ache. A tear slips free, but I barely feel it.

Thank God.

Thank fucking God.

But even that sense of relief feels tangled in barbed wire because alive doesn’t erase what happened to him. It doesn’t erase the image of him lying unconscious in that trunk. Or strapped to that gurney. Or lying broken beneath fluorescent ICU lights while machines kept his body breathing.

Because I failed.

“How bad?” I force out roughly. “Is he… awake?”

Her thumb strokes slowly across my knuckles.

“Not yet. But the swelling in his brain is improving every day,” she says softly. “The doctors are hopeful. If things keep going the way they are, they think they might be able to start waking him up soon.”

Hopeful.

Might.

Soon.

Words that are supposed to comfort me, but my mind latches onto the uncertainty almost immediately.

Might.

Might wake up. Might recover. Might survive.

Nausea rolls violently through my stomach again.

“Ben’s working on getting him transferred closer to Ruby Creek,” she continues gently. “So he’ll be closer to family. So we can all take turns being there for him when he wakes up.”

When he wakes up. Not if .

I latch onto that distinction immediately, holding it together with a kind of desperate force that makes my chest ache. But even as relief tries to settle somewhere inside me, guilt crushes it almost instantly beneath its weight.

Because Tyler should never have been in that position in the first place.

I knew I shouldn’t have let him go to Philadelphia alone.

I knew it.

But I didn’t fight hard enough to keep him with me. I didn’t do the one thing I promised myself I always would.

Keep us together.

So I’d be there to protect him if he needed me.

My chest tightens painfully as the thoughts continue spiraling through me because it suddenly feels impossible to ignore the pattern forming around everyone I care about.

My mother.

Tyler and Annelly.

Even Emilia and her girls, on that horrible day they were taken right from under my watch.

Every person I try to protect eventually ends up hurt. Or worse.

Something hollow opens slowly inside my chest as the thought claws in deeper.

Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe trusting me is what destroys the people I care about.

The air in my lungs suddenly feels too thin because what if all this time I’ve been so convinced I could protect the people I love that I never stopped to realize I was the one dragging them straight into the fire?

The thought tears through me so viciously I almost can’t breathe around it.

And the worst part?

I don’t know how to convince myself it isn’t true.

The room slowly quiets after that.

Not completely.

Machines still hum around me. Monitors continue their steady beeping nearby while nurses move in and out of the room in softer waves now, adjusting medications, checking monitors, speaking quietly to one another as the chaos finally begins to settle.

And for the first time since waking up, I can breathe without feeling like I’m drowning in noise and movement.

Annelly’s hand never leaves mine through any of it.

Even now, her thumb continues brushing slow circles across my skin, grounding me so completely I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it.

Or maybe she does.

Maybe this is simply who she is.

My angel. My peace. The one person who somehow always knows exactly what I need before I do.

Something tight and unfamiliar lodges deep in my throat.

“Alright,” one nurse says gently after checking another monitor beside me. “We’re going to let you get some rest now.”

Then she turns toward Annelly.

“We should probably get you back to your room, too. You need proper sleep after everything you’ve been through today.”

The second the words leave her mouth, panic detonates inside me.

My grip clamps around Annelly’s hand instantly because suddenly all I can see is her being pulled away from me again while I lie trapped in this bed, unable to stop it.

Unable to reach her.

Unable to save her.

The room tilts violently beneath me.

“No.” The word rips out before I even realize it. “Absolutely not.”

Everyone in the room stills.

Not that I notice, since my entire body is locked in on one horrifying thought…

I can’t lose sight of her again.

I won’t.

Annelly’s attention snaps fully back to me, and whatever she sees on my face makes her expression immediately soften.

“Hey,” she whispers, squeezing my hand tighter. “James…”

But I’m already spiraling.

My breathing turns shallow. My pulse pounds so hard it hurts. Pain tears sharply through my ribs and abdomen with every inhale, but the fear swallowing me whole nearly drowns all of it out.

“Please,” I rasp, shame burning hot beneath the panic because I can hear it in my own voice now. “You can’t take her. Annelly… you can’t leave me.”

The words strip something raw out of me.

Desperation.

Need.

The kind that leaves a man completely exposed.

“You can’t. I can’t…”

I can’t do that again.

I can’t wake up not knowing where you are.

I can’t survive hearing you scream while I’m too broken to reach you.

But the words never fully make it out. They stay lodged somewhere deep inside me, escaping instead through the tears burning down my face.

Annelly shifts closer immediately.

“Listen to me. I’m. Not. Leaving you,” she whispers, her voice cracking around the edges.

The words hit me hard enough that something inside me gives way.

“I’m staying right here with you,” she continues, brushing her fingers carefully through my hair before resting her forehead lightly against mine. Tears slip silently down her cheeks. “I’m not leaving. I’ll never leave you again.”

The vise constricting my chest somehow loosens at those words because suddenly it’s painfully clear she understands.

Not just the panic, but the fear beneath it. The helplessness. The fact that right now the thought of being separated from her feels less survivable than the pain tearing through my body.

The other nurse hesitates before glancing toward the older woman beside her.

“Maybe we could bring another bed in for her.”

Before the other nurse can answer, Annelly cuts in.

“Yes. Do that. Because I’m staying.”

Then her eyes come back to mine.

Steady. Certain.

Like there was never any other option.

“Until he’s out of here, I’m not leaving him.”

And for the first time since waking up, some small part of the terror inside me finally loosens enough for exhaustion to begin breaking through.

Later, after the room empties and the lights dim lower around us, Annelly carefully climbs into the hospital bed beside me.

Every movement is slow. Cautious. Like she’s afraid of hurting me.

The mattress shifts gently beneath her weight before she settles carefully against my side, her head resting lightly on my chest while I wrap one arm around her as best I can despite the pain pulling hard through my ribs and abdomen.

The second she’s against me, the hurricane inside me finally begins to quiet.

It’s far from gone. Certainly not over.

Not even close.

But like we’re somehow caught in the eye of the storm, a calm sense of peace falls softly over us.

Her warmth slowly seeps into me. The steady rhythm of her breathing. The soft scent that’s uniquely hers. The feel of her hand resting on my chest beneath my palm.

We’re alive. Both of us still here.

Relief crashes through me so hard my breath hitches.

Because after that night—after hearing her scream while I lay there bleeding out on that floor, feeling myself slip further and further away—I genuinely didn’t think I would ever get to hold her like this again.

But now, here she is.

Curled against me. Breathing softly against my chest while I hold her like my entire existence is dependent on it.

And somewhere beneath the exhaustion, beneath the pain and terror and guilt still eating away at me, a truth settles heavily into my chest.

There’s no chance in hell I’ll ever survive losing her again.

❤️

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# Chapter 49

James

I don't sleep, not because I'm not tired, but because I can't.

The few times I manage to drift off, it's only enough for the edges of the room to blur and the steady beeping of the monitors to stretch into something distant and dreamlike. But every time my body starts sinking too far beneath the surface of sleep, something inside me jerks violently awake again.

Sometimes it's a twitch from her. A slight change in her breathing.

The worst is when she makes the faintest little sound of fear somewhere in the back of her throat.

Every single time, my eyes snap open, my arm tightening carefully around her before I even realize I'm doing it.

Nightmares.

Not just one, but many.

They've been haunting her for hours now, thankfully never fully waking her. Instead, she just shifts against me, her fingers curling weakly into the hospital gown stretched over my chest, her face tucking closer beneath my jaw as if some part of her knows I'm here keeping watch over her.

And God, that nearly destroys me.

Because even asleep, even exhausted beyond anything she should've ever had to endure, she still reaches for me. Still finds me. Still trusts me enough to curl into the broken cage of my body like I'm something safe.

Like I didn't fail her so completely that I'm the reason those nightmares even exist.

My throat tightens, and I swallow hard despite the lingering pain left behind by the breathing tube they used while I was unconscious.

Thankfully, the room itself is quiet around us, washed in the faint pink light of early morning.

Somewhere beyond the half-closed blinds, life is just beginning. The world waking up. People getting ready for work, for school, for ordinary days they'll probably never think twice about.

Completely oblivious to the darkness thriving in the shadows of their city. 

The kind of filth that, if you're one of the unlucky ones, sinks its claws into you and never fully lets go.

The kind of horrors that stained my soul long before I was old enough to understand what I was seeing, even if some part of me already knew—even then— it was wrong.

I exhale slowly, forcing the memories back down before they can fully surface. Locking them behind that door in my mind, I usually keep sealed shut for a reason.

Desperate for something else to focus on, I look around the room instead. My eyes drift over the hospital machines humming softly beside us, then to the extra bed the nurses wheeled in sometime during the night.

It still sits untouched against the far wall, blankets folded neatly at the end, pillow perfectly smooth.

A useless offering.

Neither of us even looked at it.

Not after she climbed into this bed beside me. Not after my body finally remembered how to breathe once her weight settled against me. Not after the nurses took one look at my face, then hers, and apparently decided some battles weren't worth fighting at three in the morning.

Thank Christ for small mercies.

I pull her a little closer, even though the movement sends a dull pull of pain through my ribs and abdomen. Every breath still hurts. Every slight shift reminds me of the damage hidden beneath the bandages and stitches doctors spent hours placing in their quest to piece me back together. Their attempt to undo what Victor nearly made permanent.

But none of it matters the second I feel her melt deeper against me.

Her head rests over my heart now, one hand tucked loosely against my side, her legs curled carefully away from mine like even in sleep she's afraid of hurting me. Her hair spills across my chest and shoulder in soft, tangled waves, catching faint traces of morning light.

She looks impossibly small like this.

Fragile in a way I know she'd hate if she knew I was thinking it.

Because Annelly isn't fragile. She's survived too damn much to ever truly be that.

But right now, curled against me with shadows beneath her eyes and bruises darkening skin I would've given my life to keep untouched, she looks breakable enough that something inside me splinters every time I look at her.

My gaze drifts over her face again.

The faint swelling near her cheek. The tiny cut near her hairline. The darkening purple marks around her wrists where she'd been restrained.

My jaw clenches so hard that pain shoots through my skull.

And then it happens again. Like some waking nightmare I can't stop reliving.

Victor's hands all over her.
 
Her screams.
 
Her body pinned beneath his.

A sharp breath tears into my lungs before I even realize I'm doing it, expanding my chest far beyond the point of reasonable pain. The stabbing sensation that follows forces a gasp out of me, brutal enough to yank me back out of the memory before it can fully swallow me whole.

I close my eyes and drag in a slower breath through the cannula still tucked beneath my nose, trying to force the panic back under control.

In.

Then out. 

Focusing instead on the warmth of her body against me. Her breath brushing softly against my chest. Her fingers curled loosely in my hospital gown.

She's here. She's safe.

It's all that matters.

I repeat the words silently over and over, like maybe if I say them enough, some broken part of me will finally start believing them.

But then she makes another small sound in her sleep. Barely anything. Just that same wounded little noise that instantly puts every nerve in my body on alert.

It's happening again.

Everything inside me goes still.

"Snowflake," I whisper, my voice nothing but gravel and breath.

I lift my hand slowly, every muscle protesting, and brush my trembling fingers through her hair as gently as I can manage.

Once.

Twice.

Slow enough not to wake her. Careful enough not to startle whatever part of her is trapped inside the nightmare.

"I've got you," I breathe against her hair, even though the words tear something open inside me the second they leave my mouth. "You're safe. I've got you."

Her brows pull together for one agonizing second.

Then her body softens.

Her fingers loosen against my gown.

Her breathing slowly evens out again.

And I lie there staring down at her, chest aching for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet wound and everything to do with the fact that I've done this so many times now I've lost count.

Her drowning in nightmares. Me offering nothing but soft reassurances that do absolutely nothing to erase what she's been through.

If anything, they feel like lies, because if I really were her protector, none of this would've happened in the first place.

She wouldn't be bruised and trembling in her sleep. Tyler wouldn't be lying somewhere in another hospital fighting for his life. And I wouldn't be trapped beneath wires and bandages and the suffocating truth that every person I love eventually bleeds for my failures.

My eyes burn.

I blink hard, turning my face slightly toward the ceiling because I can't let the tears fall onto her. I can't let my grief become one more thing her body has to absorb. One more weight pressing down on her when she's already carrying too damn much.

So I hold still.

I breathe through the pain.

I watch the morning light inch slowly across the ceiling tiles.

And I hold the woman I love like she's the only thing left tethering me to this world.

Because she is.

She has been for far longer than I ever let myself admit.

And maybe the most terrifying part isn't needing her this much.

Maybe it's knowing there's no undoing it now. No walking it back. No pretending I could survive losing her if the universe ever decided to be cruel enough to test me again.

But somehow even more terrifying than losing her is knowing how suffocating my brand of love can feel. 

That all-consuming, co-dependent need... it's the only way I've ever known how to love.

And I can't help but wonder how much of that she'll be able to take before she finally realizes loving someone like me only makes it harder for her to breathe. 

❤️

 
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REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 50

James

I feel it instantly. The first signs she’s waking up.

A shift in her breath against my chest. Not panicked this time, just slower somehow. Heavier with awareness instead of sleep.

My eyes drift down to her face as she stirs against me, lashes fluttering softly before she makes the smallest sound and burrows even closer, like her body’s searching for warmth before her mind fully catches up.

The vise that’s constricted my chest for hours loosens so fast the relief feels almost painful.

“Hey, Snowflake,” I whisper.

Her brows pull together faintly before her eyes finally crack open. Still glassy with exhaustion. Still weighed down by everything she’s survived these last few days. But the second she looks at me, something inside her visibly settles.

And God.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.

Her hand shifts weakly against my ribs, fingers brushing carefully over the hospital gown stretched across my chest like she’s checking for damage before she even says a word.

“You okay?” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

The question nearly wrecks me all over again.

Because she’s the one bruised. Traumatized. Exhausted beyond reason. And still, the first thing she does after waking up is check on me.

I force a small smile, even though it feels fragile around the edges.

“I’m okay.”

It’s a lie. We both know it, but my pride won’t let me answer any other way.

Annelly’s eyes narrow slightly, soft but unconvinced. Then she pushes herself up just enough to reach my face, her movements careful and slow so she doesn’t jostle my injuries.

Her palm settles lightly against my cheek.

“You didn’t sleep,” she says quietly.

It’s not a question.

I swallow hard.

Her thumb brushes once beneath my eye before her gaze drifts over my face, taking me in with a kind of heartbreaking gentleness that makes it impossible to hide from her for long.

“You look exhausted.”

A weak huff of laughter escapes me.

“That makes two of us.”

But she doesn’t smile. If anything, her expression softens further, like she can see every crack I’m trying to hold together beneath the surface.

And maybe she can.

Because no one has ever looked at me the way this woman does. Like she sees every ruined, ugly part of me and somehow still finds a way to love me anyway.

Her forehead presses lightly against mine then, the touch so soft it almost undoes me.

For a second, neither of us says anything. We just breathe there together in the quiet hum of the ICU, tangled carefully around each other while pale morning light spills through the blinds beside us.

And for the first time since I woke up in this hospital bed, the panic clawing at my ribs eases enough for me to feel something dangerously close to peace.

“You were watching me sleep, weren’t you?” she murmurs softly.

There’s no accusation in it. If anything, she sounds almost sad about it.

I try to look away.

Try being the important word.

Because her hand is still cupping my face, her forehead still resting against mine, and I’m suddenly so fucking tired of pretending with her. Too worn down to keep rebuilding walls she sees through anyway.

So instead, my fingers tighten carefully around her wrist.

“Some.”

Annelly exhales quietly, like she already knows the answer is worse than that.

“How long?”

I hesitate.

Because how do I tell her I spent every minute of the last few hours memorizing every shift in her breathing? Every twitch. Every tiny sound she made when the nightmares held her down a little too tightly.

How do I tell her I inventoried every bruise, every cut, every mark he left on her skin like some kind of glutton for punishment, determined never to forget all the things I failed to protect her from?

Every reason I don’t deserve her love. Her compassion.

Her eyes search mine when I don’t answer.

“James.”

The way she says my name, soft and worried, cuts straight through me.

“I didn’t sleep much,” I admit finally, my voice rough. “Every time I closed my eyes…”

I trail off, jaw tightening.

Because I can still feel it. That violent panic clawing up my spine every time my body tried drifting too far under. Like if I stopped watching her for even a second, something terrible would happen.

Annelly’s expression crumples slightly around the edges.

“You should’ve rested.”

A hollow laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

“Couldn’t.”

Her thumb strokes slowly across my cheek again.

“Because of nightmares?”

I nod once, not saying it was her nightmares that kept me awake. Mostly because I never slept deeply enough to be haunted by my own.

Those will come later.

Intermingling with the rest of the horrors that already haunt my nights anyway.

Hell, what’s a little more trauma when you’ve already accumulated a lifetime’s worth well before you were even old enough to be considered an adult?

“I needed to make sure you were okay,” I say quietly. “Needed to know you wouldn’t be taken from me again.”

The words settle heavily between us, and I feel her body go still against mine.

Instantly shame crawls up my spine, hot and ugly, because I hear how it sounds. How broken I sound. How dangerously close to the edge of unraveling I actually am.

“I know it’s fucked up,” I mutter, looking away this time. “I know it’s not healthy.”

“James—”

“I almost lost you.”

The words come out sharper than I intended. Raw enough that her mouth closes immediately.

My chest pulls painfully with the force of the breath that follows.

“The last time I saw you, I left you safe in that cabin. And then the next thing I knew, you were gone. Just… gone.”

A strangled sound catches in my throat as the memories slam back into me all at once.

“And then the next time I saw you after that…” My voice breaks. “I opened that door and saw you screaming under him while he was getting ready to…”

My throat closes up completely, refusing to let the words out into the open.

I shut my eyes for a second, fighting to get my breathing back under control.

When I open them again, I don’t bother trying to hide the moisture gathering there. There’s no point. Not when she’s looking at me closely enough to see straight through every wall I have left.

I swallow hard before forcing the words out anyway.

“So yeah… now every time I close my eyes, my brain screams at me to stay awake. Because if I let my guard down for even a second, I might lose you again.”

Silence.

Heavy. Devastating silence.

Then her fingers slip beneath my jaw, guiding my face back toward hers with impossible gentleness.

When I finally look at her again, her eyes are shining with heartbreak.

“James,” she whispers carefully.

Her expression trembles as she searches my face, and I can practically see her trying to measure how much damage all of this really did beneath the surface.

The answer is simple, really.

Too damn much.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says softly. “I can see it all over your face, and I need you to stop. Because no matter how you try to twist this, you didn’t fail me.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

My jaw tightens instantly.

“Annelly—”

“No.” Her fingers curl more firmly beneath my jaw, refusing to let me look away this time. “You don’t get to do that.”

A bitter sound scrapes up my throat, somewhere between a laugh and something wounded.

“Don’t get to do what?” I ask roughly. “Tell the truth?”

“You don’t get to rewrite what happened just so you have enough ammunition to punish yourself.”

The quiet firmness in her voice catches me off guard enough that I actually go still.

“You came for me.” Her eyes shine harder now, but her voice never wavers. “You crossed five states in a helicopter to find me. You fought through Victor’s men. You got shot protecting me.” Her breath catches slightly. “Need I remind you, you literally died protecting me?”

When her face crumples, the pain that twists through me is violent enough that I have to drag in a careful breath through my nose as tears I didn’t even realize were there slip free.

The doctors briefly explained what happened to me.

Hypovolemic cardiac arrest.

At some point after the rescue, I must’ve passed out and my heart stopped from blood loss. And judging by the way she looks at me now, she was there to see it happen. There while someone pumped on my chest hard enough to break ribs trying to keep me from slipping away for good.

Another thing to add to the endless list of trauma and pain I’ve handed her.

“I’m sorry for that.” I cup her face gently, pressing my lips to the tip of her nose as my breath hitches around a painful sob. “You shouldn’t have had to see that. You shouldn’t have had to—”

“Stop. Please… just stop.”

She pulls back slightly, crying harder now, her chin trembling as she looks at me.

“You are not responsible for what happened.”

She takes in a shaky breath then, like she needs it to steady herself before continuing.

“Someone important to both of us recently gave me the best advice I’ve ever heard. And now I’m giving it back to you, with the condition that we both promise to remember it.”

She pauses, searching my eyes for a long second.

“Whatever you’re feeling… feel it. Whatever you need to do to survive this… do it.” Her voice softens further. “But don’t confuse guilt with responsibility, because they are not the same thing.”

Her fingers tighten slightly against my jaw.

“You are not responsible for what Victor did to me. To Tyler. He is. Everything that happened is on him. Not you.”

I shake my head immediately. That stubborn, broken part of me that keeps score of every failure, every mistake, refuses to let her go on believing I’m anything but to blame.

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand more than you know.”

There’s no hesitation in her voice now. No uncertainty.

Just exhausted conviction.

“I know what trauma does, James. I know how it twists everything until guilt starts feeling easier to carry than helplessness.” Her fingers slide slowly into my hair near my temple. “But you are not responsible for the evil things other people choose to do. Those are your words. You’re the one who told me that once.”

My throat tightens so hard it hurts.

Because I did tell her that. Because in her case, it absolutely applied.

But for me?

With all the horrible things I’ve done in my life, all the mistakes I’ve made, I’m not so sure I deserve that kind of grace.

Especially when I can still see it all so clearly in the back of my mind.

Tyler bruised and unconscious. Victor’s hands on her. The terror on her face as she fought to get to me while I lay there bleeding out, helpless to save her.

“I should’ve protected you,” I say anyway, the words breaking apart on the way out. “You’re the woman I love. It was my job to keep you safe.”

Her entire expression crumples then.

Not frustration. Not pity.

Heartbreak.

“James,” she whispers, “you are not God.”

The words knock something loose inside me, and suddenly I can’t breathe right anymore.

Because she says it so simply. So gently.

Like she’s letting me down easy.

Like she truly doesn’t understand that protecting the people I love isn’t just something I do. It’s woven so deeply into me that it feels as essential as the blood somehow still pumping through my veins.

The harsh truth is… somewhere along the way, it became the entire reason I exist.

It’s been that way since I was four years old, standing there with my baby brother in my arms while he cried and cried as our drugged-out mother ignored him, and somehow already knowing—even then—that it was my job to keep him safe. To keep him alive.

That was the moment it rooted itself so deeply into who I am that I no longer know where that responsibility ends and I begin.

And without that role…

What the fuck am I supposed to be?

❤️

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# Chapter 51

James

"It's who I am," I tell her, my voice deep and broken in a way I barely recognize as my own.

"No, baby. Who you are is the man I love. A man who loves so deeply, so completely, he loses himself in that love and forgets he deserves to be loved too. Just as much. Maybe even more."

Her words settle inside me like shrapnel.

Not because I don't understand what she's trying to say, but because some broken part of me can't figure out how to even consider what she's saying. Not when I've failed the people I love so completely, time and time again.

And she must see that.

I know she does by the way her expression softens further, by the tears rolling down her face as she looks at me like I'm standing on the edge of something dangerous.

"James," she whispers again, quieter this time. "You don't have to earn the right to be loved."

The words hit like a punch to the gut, dragging a choked, ragged sound out of me before I can stop it.

Because God... those words.

Isn't that exactly what I've been trying to do my entire life?

Be useful enough. Protective enough. Necessary enough so that the people I love, the people I can't live without, never leave me. Convince them I'm enough despite everything ugly buried inside me.

A harsh breath leaves me as I stare at her.

"If something had happened to you..." I say weakly, though there's barely any fight left in me now.

Annelly shifts closer, until our foreheads touch and her hand settles over my heart like she's physically trying to steady it beneath her palm.

"Nothing happened. You got there in time, James. You helped save me."

"But it could've been worse." My voice cracks, emotion burning thick in the back of my throat. "I rushed in without thinking. I lost control of the situation, and he got my gun. I could've lost you."

 I swallow hard. 

"It would've destroyed me," I admit quietly. "I wouldn't have survived it. I wouldn't have wanted to."

Her face crumples completely then, and Christ... I hate being the reason she looks at me like that.

But I'm too exhausted to lie anymore. Too stripped raw by the last few days to keep hiding the ugliest parts of myself from her.

"And I know how that sounds," I admit, the confession tearing itself out of me one bitter piece at a time. "Fucked up. Unhealthy. Borderline suicidal. I don't need a psychologist to tell me that." My breathing stutters. "But after seeing you there in that room with him... after thinking I was too late..."

I shake my head helplessly.

"Something in me broke, snowflake."

The room goes impossibly quiet around us after that.

Just monitors humming softly in the background. Morning light stretching warmer across the white sheets tangled around us.

And for one horrible second, I wait for the fear and hesitation I know should be there to cross her face. That moment she finally realizes what I'm really trying to say. The moment she sees how damaged I truly am and pulls away.

Because what I feel for her... sometimes it terrifies me with how consuming it is.

How desperately I need her.

But that moment never comes.

 Instead, her fingers slide shakily into my hair, and she leans up to press a tender kiss to my lips.

Softly.

Carefully.

Lingering just long enough for another choked sound to slip free from my throat.

When she pulls back, her nose brushes mine.

"I need you, too," she whispers. "And I love you completely. Just as desperately, James."

Emotion lodges so violently in my chest it physically hurts to breathe around it.

"Annelly—"

"No, listen to me." Her voice trembles now, but there's strength underneath it too. "Most of all, I love being loved by you. With all of your heart. Your soul. Every piece of you." Her fingers tighten slightly in my hair. "You, James Serrano, are not too broken for me. If anything..." A tear slips down her cheek. "I think you were made for me."

My eyes burn instantly. 

Because she says it like she means every word. Like she's choosing me fully informed.

"I know who you are," she continues softly. "I see the guilt. The anger. The way you carry everyone else's pain on your shoulders until it crushes you."

Her thumb brushes beneath my eye, catching the latest round of tears that slip free. 

"But I also see the little boy who loved his baby brother enough to sacrifice his own childhood just to keep him safe. I see the man who's spent the last few months holding me together every time it felt like I couldn't breathe." Her voice breaks slightly. "The man who would burn the entire world down before letting someone hurt the people he loves."

She presses her forehead more firmly against mine.

"I see all of you, James. The ridiculously handsome face the whole world notices, the scars covering your body, the trauma you carry inside..." Her lips tremble into a soft, tearful smile. "I've seen all of it. And none of it makes me love you less. If anything, it only makes me love you more."

A shaky breath leaves me.

"So I'm telling you now, you don't get to decide what's best for me." Her fingers tighten gently against my face. "And you most certainly don't get to decide you're unworthy of letting me love you just because terrible people hurt you."

My chest caves inward.

Because somewhere along the way, without me even realizing it, this woman became the only person who's ever truly understood me. The only person who ever cared enough to try.

More than that... she somehow became the answer to everything inside me that always felt missing.

Home.

The kind I spent my whole life searching for without ever realizing it wasn't a place.

It was her.

And hearing her say she chooses me?

Regardless of everything I am. Regardless of everything I'm not.

It ruins me.

My hand trembles slightly as it cups her face.

"I love you, Annelly." I say roughly.

Not a polished declaration by any means. Not pretty in the least. 

But it's my truth. 

My heart. My soul. Every shattered piece of me laid bare in front of her.

"I love you so fucking much it terrifies me."

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks at that, but this time she smiles through them. Small and wrecked and beautiful enough to steal what little breath I have left.

"I know," she whispers softly. "But thankfully, I'm brave enough for both of us."

Her thumb strokes gently across my cheek.

"I love you too, James."

And this time when she kisses me, everything suddenly becomes clear.

This is the moment.

The one I'll think back to years from now when our children ask me when I knew it was time to make their mother my wife.

This is the moment I realize I want all of it with her.

The big family home. The white picket fence. Family hikes and fishing trips. Camping beneath dark, star-filled skies. A loud, messy house overflowing with love and laughter and all the imperfect little moments that make a life worth coming home to.

And babies.

Lots and lots of babies.

As many as she'll give me, for as long as she's willing to put up with me hovering over her like some overprotective psychopath through every pregnancy. Every birth. Every second after they take their first breaths.

The thought fills me with a kind of aching longing so deep and unfamiliar it makes my breath hitch.

Because before her? None of this had ever felt remotely possible.

Not the future. Not the sense of peace. Not the family.

Not even this kind of love.

But somehow this beautiful girl crashed into my life and made me start wanting things I'd long since convinced myself weren't possible for someone like me.

As I start piecing together impossible plans in my head—finding the perfect ring, figuring out the words that'll make her say yes—she curls carefully back against my chest, fitting herself against me like she was always meant to be there.

Because she was.

I heard her say it with my own ears. And if she can so easily declare I was made for her, then there's no question she was made for me too.

With tears still shimmering in my eyes, I pull her as close as I can without hurting either of us and press my lips gently to the top of her head while the tension slowly bleeds out of my body for the first time in what feels like forever.

Her breathing evens out first.

Mine follows shortly after.

And somewhere in the quiet hum of the ICU, with morning light warming the room around us and her heartbeat steady against my side, something inside me finally loosens enough to let go.

Not the fear. Not the guilt.

Those are probably never leaving me.

But the certainty that I could lose her the second she's out of my sight.

For the first time since waking up in this hospital bed, I finally trust she'll still be here when I wake up again.

So I close my eyes, and with the hand of the woman I love held tightly against my heart, I let sleep claim me.

❤️

 
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Chapter 52

James

Pain lances through my abdomen like fire, hard enough to blur the edges of my vision by the time Zeb finally muscles me back into my room.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters beside me, keeping one firm hand locked around my arm while I brace the other against the wall near the doorway, trying not to look like I’m seconds away from collapsing. “The nurses said ten minutes with the walker. Not a damn marathon through the hospital on legs that can barely hold your weight.”

“I’m fine,” I grind out automatically, even though sweat drips down the back of my neck beneath the thin hospital gown and every breath feels like somebody’s dragging broken glass through my ribs.

Zeb snorts. “Yeah? Sure. Because from where I’m standing, you look like shit. Like death itself chewed you up and spat you back out because even it didn’t want your ass.”

He cackles loudly, entirely too amused by his own joke.

I ignore him, my eyes immediately snapping toward the far side of the room instead.

Empty bed.

Empty chair.

No Annelly.

That awful, restless energy instantly starts clawing beneath my skin again.

“How long has it been?”

Zeb exhales like a man regretting every decision that led him here.

“Can we please get you back in bed first before you go all psycho protective asshole again?”

“No.”

The word comes out too fast, and I instantly regret it when another vicious stab of pain tears through my midsection. My hand automatically moves to cover the area like that’ll somehow help.

It doesn’t.

Not even a little bit.

It takes me a second before I can force myself to move again.

“Not the bed,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “The chair.”

Regardless of the pain I’m in, I’m done with feeling like a damn patient.

Like he knows it’s what I need, Zeb helps me past the bed, even though the deep furrow in his brow makes it obvious he’s not thrilled with the idea.

“Before you ask again, it’s been forty-five minutes.”

Fuck.

Too long.

Way too fucking long.

My eyes cut toward the door behind us before I can stop myself.

Zeb catches it immediately and rolls his eyes.

“They said the MRI could take up to ninety minutes,” he reminds me. “Which you’d know if you actually listened to people instead of pouting every time somebody so much as hints at taking her away from you.”

I barely hear him.

Because all I can think about is her downstairs somewhere I can’t reach. Somewhere I can’t protect her.

My jaw tightens hard enough to ache.

“They should’ve let me go with her.”

“Yeah,” Zeb says dryly. “Because nothing screams medically stable like your dumb ass passing out in radiology. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re all kinds of fucked up right now.”

“I’m fine. It’s been almost five days.”

“And you were dead and hooked to machines keeping you stable for part of that, remember?”

That shuts me up for about half a second. Mostly because the reminder still feels unreal.

Zeb guides me toward the chair near the window, and the second I lower myself into it, agony tears through my abdomen so violently I have to bite down hard to stop the sound trying to crawl up my throat.

Zeb notices anyway. His eyes narrow slightly as he watches me fight through another rough breath.

“You done trying to prove you’re the toughest idiot in Manhattan?”

“I needed to move.”

“No, dumbass,” he corrects flatly. “What you needed was control. And because of the condition you’re in, everything feels out of your hands right now, so you’re spiraling.”

His words hit hard because he’s right.

And more than anything, I hate that he’s fucking right.

The room falls quiet for a second, aside from my uneven breathing.

Like I can’t help myself, my eyes drift back toward the door again.

Zeb notices and shakes his head.

“She’s okay, James. This is the last step. Once they clear her, they’ll discharge her and she’ll be free to do whatever she wants.”

I nod once, knowing he’s right. But the nervous energy still pounds through my bloodstream like a war drum anyway.

Because I fucking need her.

And what if she needs me too, and I’m not there?

The quiet doesn’t last long.

A sharp knock sounds against the partially open door before Ben steps inside, carrying enough exhaustion and irritation in his expression to make even Zeb wince slightly beside me.

“Well,” Zeb mutters under his breath. “There’s the face of a man living his best life.”

Ben ignores him completely.

His attention locks straight onto me instead, taking in the sweat still clinging to my skin, the way I’m hunched protectively over my abdomen, and the fact that I’m sitting in the chair instead of the bed.

His jaw tightens immediately.

“The nurses know you’re out of bed?”

“Probably not,” Zeb answers for me. “But in my defense, Captain Self-Destruct over there threatened to rip his own IV out if I didn’t let him go for a walk.”

“Please,” I scoff. “Those were not my exact words.”

I pause.

“Not exactly, anyway.”

“No. Of course not. Because why be direct when you can just imply it aggressively?”

Ben drags a tired hand down his face before letting out a long breath that sounds dangerously close to a man questioning why he even bothers.

“Fantastic,” he mutters. “Exactly the sort of professionalism I’ve spent the last five days defending to our favorite federal agency.”

The room shifts subtly after that. Reality stepping in and sucking the air right out of it.

Ben steps further inside, shutting the door quietly behind him before crossing his arms over his chest.

“The FBI’s furious.”

No point sugarcoating it then.

I lean back carefully against the chair, ignoring the protest ripping through my abdomen. “Because Victor’s dead?”

Ben gives me a flat look.

“Yes, James. Generally, federal agencies prefer their high-value suspects alive and capable of answering questions.”

“She had no choice. He was trying to rape her—”

“I know what he was doing.” The sharpness in Ben’s voice cuts through the room instantly.

Not anger exactly. Something tighter than that. A controlled, exhausted kind of frustration stretched razor thin.

“And I know she didn’t have a choice,” he continues more evenly. “The problem is that now the FBI’s case relies solely on surveillance footage, witness statements, and whatever digital trail their tech guys can piece together because the one person they desperately needed breathing is currently lying in a morgue with his brains blown out.”

Silence settles heavily after that.

Ben shakes his head slowly.

“You went in against orders. Before law enforcement arrived. Before backup was in position.” His eyes lock onto mine. “Do you have any idea the nightmare that created?”

Paperwork. Jurisdiction fights. Internal investigations. Political fallout.

I already know.

Still, I don’t answer. Because none of it matters as much as the image that still flashes behind my eyes every time I blink.

Annelly screaming beneath Victor. The look of terror on her face.

If I had waited…

It would’ve been too late.

Ben must see it written across my face because his own expression tightens slightly.

“What the hell were you thinking, James?” he asks finally.

The answer leaves me before I can stop it. “Don’t you dare do that. Don’t you dare stand there acting like you wouldn’t have done the exact same damn thing if it had been Jen trapped in that room with him.”

The room goes completely still.

Zeb’s the first to look away, his gaze dropping toward the floor.

Ben, however, doesn’t move at all. He just stares at me for a long moment, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

His silence says everything.

Because he can’t deny I’m right.

If somebody had taken Jen or Avery, nothing on this earth would’ve stopped him from going through that door to save them.

Eventually, Ben exhales heavily through his nose.

“That doesn’t make what you did any less reckless,” he says tiredly.

“No,” I admit quietly. “But I’d do it again. In a fucking heartbeat.”

And as I search through the guilt twisting inside me, I realize just how true that statement is. Sure, maybe I would’ve handled parts of it differently. Keeping control of my weapon ranking pretty damn high on that list. But waiting?

Absolutely fucking not.

Like it’s the answer he expected all along, Ben just nods once. “I know.”

Some of the tension eases out of the room after that. It doesn’t disappear completely, but it feels different now. Less commanding lecture. More exhausted honesty.

Ben finally uncrosses his arms.

“We cleaned it up,” he says. “The surveillance feeds helped. A lot. Between those, the hostage situation, the evidence in the building, and Victor discharging your weapon during the confrontation, the shooting was deemed justified.”

Relief loosens something painfully tight in my chest at the knowledge that Annelly isn’t in trouble.

“But,” Ben adds pointedly, “you still need to give formal statements to NYPD and the FBI once you’re medically cleared.”

“Can’t wait,” I mutter.

Zeb snorts beside me. “Sure you can’t.”

“I’m serious. I just want this done and over with so we can all get on with our lives.”

Annelly. Tyler.

After everything they’ve been through, it’s what they deserve. And I’ll be there every step of the way, helping piece them back together no matter the cost.

“James…” Ben hesitates for a second, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I know you well enough to know you’re about to pour every ounce of yourself into helping Annelly and Tyler get through this.” His expression tightens slightly. “And that’s admirable. But everything that happened… you can’t just shove it down and pretend it didn’t affect you. At some point, you’re going to have to stop and actually deal with it.”

Anger flares so fast it catches even me off guard.

“You see this, Ben?”

I gesture bitterly toward my body, toward the stitches, the weakness, the pain radiating through me with every breath I take.

“Me sitting here… this is me dealing with it.” My voice sharpens. “So mind your own damn business and let me handle my own goddamn life.” I glare at him. “That includes Annelly and my brother. This is your only warning. Don’t start meddling in shit you don’t understand.”

“Alrighty then.” Zeb immediately steps between us, shoving Ben back playfully with a grin. “Back to your corners, gentlemen. Why don’t we agree to table this conversation for a later date?”

He looks toward Ben, and I don’t miss the protective edge beneath the humor.

“You know, when our boy isn’t sitting here in pain, half-drugged, sleep deprived, and desperately trying not to go chasing after his girl like the emotionally unstable German shepherd puppy we all know he is.”

“Go fuck yourself, asshole,” I bark back automatically, immediately regretting it when the movement sends another sharp pull through my abdomen.

My hand clamps protectively over my side while both of them stare at me.

Then Zeb slowly turns toward Ben with that stupid grin still plastered across his face.

“Did you hear that?”

Ben nods solemnly. “I did. He’s clearly feeling better.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Zeb scoffs dramatically. “Brother, our boy is better than better. He’s in love.”

Both of them look at me then.

Ben’s expression knowing. Zeb’s entirely too entertained.

“Oh, get the fuck out of here,” I mutter irritably. “Both of you. Leave me the hell alone.”

Zeb grins wider.

“Brother, you literally died over this woman. That’s not exactly subtle.” He gestures vaguely toward me. “Hell, this is something we should be celebrating.”

“Seriously?” I glare at him. “I got shot. Nearly died. And somehow your takeaway is that we should celebrate?”

Ben actually laughs at that, his head nodding in agreement.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, exhausted, in pain, and missing my woman enough that it physically aches beneath my ribs. “Seriously. Both of you get out.”

As the saying goes, with friends like these assholes, who the fuck needs enemies?

❤️

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# Chapter 53

James

"Do you have any questions for me?"

The gray-haired doctor standing at the foot of my bed barely glances up from the clipboard in his hands as he flips through pages of discharge instructions I stopped listening to at least five minutes ago.

Something about activity restrictions. Pain management. Follow-up appointments. Warning signs to watch for.

As if I could possibly focus on any of that right now when every breath still feels like somebody's driving a crowbar through my midsection.

"No," I answer roughly.

The word scrapes its way out of my throat while I shift carefully against the raised hospital bed, immediately regretting the movement when a sharp pull tears through my abdomen hard enough to make my vision blur for half a second.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Eleven days later and my body still feels like a goddamn war zone.

The gunshot wound alone would've been bad enough. But stacked on top of the abdominal surgery, the broken ribs from CPR, the blood loss, and the lingering weakness from literally dying, every part of me feels wrecked in ways I don't know how to explain without sounding as fucked up as I feel.

And I hate it.

I hate how weak I am. How slow. How every movement now comes with calculation behind it.

How standing too long leaves me dizzy.

How I still catch Annelly and the guys watching me like they're afraid I'll collapse at any moment.

Most of all, I hate that while my body's busy failing me, everything else around me is falling apart too.

Tyler's still unconscious in a hospital six hours away. 

Annelly's trying to pretend she's okay too, when it's so damn obvious she's struggling herself. 

And the one safe place I built to anchor us through moments like this no longer exists in the way it used to.

Now it's just a structure. 

Not a sanctuary. 

Not the one place we could always return to when the rest of the world became too heavy to carry.

Even now, I still can't bring myself to look at the pictures Ben sent.

I just can't.

Because the second I see the damage, it becomes real in a way that'll never wash clean. And it's not just the broken windows or the blast damage or the fact that Bastille's men breached my home while we were gone.

No.

What becomes real is what it means.

That after all these years, after everything I sacrificed trying to build a stable life for Tyler and me, I still failed to keep the darkness out.

That house wasn't just a place to live.

It was proof.

Proof that my brother finally had somewhere safe to come home to.

Proof that we survived our childhood. 

Proof that I became the kind of man capable of protecting the people who depended on me.

And now Tyler's lying unconscious in a hospital in Lakeview while I'm getting discharged back into a life I barely recognize, with no home to return to.

The doctor says something else about recovery timelines before finally snapping the folder shut.

"Well," he says with a polite smile, "it looks like you're officially free of us, Mr. Serrano."

Free.

Yeah, right.

Not exactly the word I'd use for a man walking out of here with his life in ruins.

The doctor gives us one last polite nod before finally leaving the room, the door clicking shut quietly behind him.

Silence settles almost immediately after. Oppressive in a way I'm unfortunately starting to get used to.

I exhale slowly through my nose before forcing myself upright, already dreading the simple act of getting dressed.

Jesus Christ.

A couple of weeks ago, I could've kitted up for a twenty-four-hour field op without thinking twice about it. Now just reaching for the folded shirt beside me pulls hard enough across my abdomen to make me stop halfway through the movement.

The frustration hits instantly.

Sharp.

Ugly.

Humiliating.

Carefully, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, planting my feet on the floor while I wait for the brief wave of dizziness to pass. 

Across the room, Annelly quietly watches me from the chair near the window, her hospital bracelet still wrapped around her wrist despite the fact she could've taken the damn thing off days ago.

I can feel her eyes on me while I slowly start changing out of the hospital gown.

Every movement is an exercise in perseverance, gritting my teeth through the pain while I try to convince myself it's fine.

I'm fine.

Everything is goddamn fucking fine.

And the worst part of it all is knowing she's watching every second of my struggle. That she's seeing me weak and limited. 

Reduced to a version of myself I barely recognize. 

Human in ways I've spent my entire life trying not to be.

"You're doing that brooding thing again." Her voice is soft and pleasant in a way I don't deserve.

"Sorry. I'm fine," I mutter automatically, focusing on buttoning my shirt mostly because it gives me something else to look at besides her face. "Just harder getting dressed than I remember."

Judging by the heavy silence that follows, my attempt at humor fails horribly.

Then— 

"James."

Just my name.

Gentle.

Knowing.

And somehow that feels even worse.

"Seriously, Snowflake. I'm okay," I say, even though the lie sounds weak the second it leaves my mouth. "Just tired."

Another stretch of silence passes while I carefully slide into my pants before gingerly lowering myself back onto the edge of the bed.

Only then do I realize my boots are sitting all the way across the room.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Like she can read the frustration written all over my face, I hear the chair shift softly across the room.

Then her footsteps.

Slow.

Careful.

A second later, she kneels in front of me before I can stop her.

"Snowflake—"

"Stop pretending, James," she says quietly, wrapping one hand around my foot as she helps guide it into the boot. "Please."

The words are hard to hear because I know she isn't just talking about the pain. She's talking about everything else too.

My jaw tightens as I stare down at her hands while she works.

"I'm sorry. I just..." I scrub a hand over the back of my neck. "I don't know how to do this."

The confession scrapes its way out of my chest.

"Leaving this place. Going back to Ruby Creek. Returning to that house." I shake my head. "I just... I don't think I can go back there."

My throat tightens hard enough to ache.

"But if not there, then what?" I stare at the floor. "I have no other place that's safe enough for Tyler to come home to."

Annelly doesn't stop. She finishes tying my boots first. Only then does she look up, her eyes meeting mine. 

And I'm relieved by what I find there. 

Not pity. 

Understanding.

"You're thinking about Tyler," she says softly.

I let out a humorless laugh.

"When am I not thinking about Tyler?"

The question hangs between us. Partly because it's true. But also because we both know I'm not really just thinking about my brother.

I'm thinking about everything. 

Tyler. 

The house. 

The future.

Us.

Annelly rises from her kneeling position and settles beside me on the edge of the bed, her shoulder brushing mine. The contact goes a long way toward easing some of the restless energy simmering beneath my skin.

For a moment, neither of us says a word. But unlike the silence from earlier, this one feels different. 

It isn't as heavy. 

As suffocating.

It's still crowded with all the things neither of us quite knows how to put into words, but there's something hopeful underneath it now. Like maybe we're finally standing at the edge of figuring some of it out.

Finally, I stare down at my hands and admit the thing I've been trying not to think about for days.

"I don't want this to end."

Annelly goes still beside me. 

"What? The hospital?"

A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

"No. Not that. God knows I'm ready to get the hell out of here."

I drag a hand through my hair and look toward the window.

"For the last six weeks, it's mostly just been you and me."

The cabin.

The woods.

Fishing by the lake.

Even this lousy hospital room.

Every memory from those six weeks is somehow wrapped around her.

"Every morning I wake up and you're there." My voice grows rougher. "Every night I fall asleep knowing exactly where you are. Somewhere I can reach if I need to."

The admission feels embarrassingly vulnerable. Especially because I already know how unhealthy it probably sounds. But it's the truth. And I'm too damn tired to pretend otherwise.

"I can't imagine sleeping without you now." I swallow hard. "I can't imagine waking up and not knowing how you are. How you slept. If you had nightmares. If you're okay." 

My jaw tightens. 

"Fuck... if you needed me and I wasn't there."

❤️

 
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Chapter 54

James

The words leave before I can stop them. Before I can soften them or bury them beneath a joke.

Heat creeps up the back of my neck immediately afterward.

Jesus Christ.

Listen to yourself.

Beside me, Annelly’s fingers quietly thread through mine.

“James.”

I shake my head, unable to stop now that I’ve opened the floodgates.

“Once we get back to Ruby Creek, everything changes.” I stare at our joined hands. “You have your life. Your mom. Your friends. Eventually you’ll go back to work. Maybe even back to school in New York now that it’s safe.”

And me?

All I’ll have is my little brother still unconscious in a hospital fighting for his life.

A destroyed house I can’t bear to live in.

A life I barely recognize.

“And you think that means we stop being us?”

The question catches me off guard. And if I’m being honest, adds yet another thing to the growing pile of shit that’ll keep me awake tonight.

I finally look at her, searching desperately for some clue of what she’s thinking.

“Well, now I guess that too,” I admit quietly, sounding far more defeated than I mean to. “But mostly I just know how easy it is for life to get in the way.”

My gaze drops back to our hands.

“Responsibilities. Work. Outside obligations.” I swallow hard. “One day you wake up and realize months have passed, and somehow the things that mattered most ended up at the bottom of the list.”

Something soft settles across her features.

“Maybe that happens to some people,” she says. “But James, we didn’t survive all of this just to walk away from each other now that the danger is over.”

Her thumb brushes slowly across my knuckles.

“We were a team in the cabin. We were a team against Victor.” A small smile breaks across her face. “And we’ve even been a team here, while you were busy driving every doctor and nurse completely insane.”

That earns the faintest snort from me.

“Which means we can keep being a team when we get home.”

Home.

The word twists unexpectedly inside my chest, not because of the house, but because of the way she says it. Like wherever we’re headed, she already assumes we’re going there together.

“All you have to do, James, is stay out of your own way.”

I stare at our joined hands for a long moment, ashamed by the fact she knows I’m the one most likely to screw this up.

“How do I do that?”

“Look at me, James.”

She waits until I’m brave enough to do as she asks. Then she rewards me with the softest, most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

“You stop trying to figure everything out on your own. If you’re worried about something—about us—you talk to me. Together, we can figure it out.”

She pauses for a moment, like she’s letting the words settle.

Or maybe she’s choosing her next ones carefully.

“Now, about the house…”

There it is.

“It’s still there. Still standing. And Ben said the damage was mostly contained to the garage and the upper level near the kitchen.” She squeezes my hand gently. “He said he already has contractors lined up. All you have to do is talk to him. Tell him who you want to hire.”

I look away.

Because for all the comfort her words bring, they don’t solve the problem sitting like a lead weight in my chest.

“You don’t understand.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Because they’re not true. If anyone understands what I’m going through, it’s her.

Still, I don’t know how else to explain it.

“That house wasn’t just a house. It wasn’t just a building with a roof and walls and all our stuff inside.”

My voice comes out rougher than I intend.

“It was the first thing I ever built for us that felt permanent.” I swallow hard. “The first place where Tyler didn’t have to worry about where he was sleeping. Or whether he’d be too hot or too cold. Or whether we’d have food. Water.”

My throat tightens.

“Or if we’d have to leave in the middle of the night.”

Memories flicker through my mind.

Cheap motels. Shelters. Cars. Apartments that never lasted. Always waiting for the next disaster. The next eviction. The next thing to go wrong.

“I spent years trying to build something safe for him.” I stare toward the window. “Something nobody could take away.”

The muscles in my face strain as I fight to keep my composure.

“And for a while, I actually thought I did it. I thought we were finally past all of that.”

My throat burns.

“But now it’s gone.”

Silence stretches between us.

I stare at the floor, fighting the pressure building inside my chest.

Because no matter how badly I wish it weren’t so, the outcome is the same.

I drag a hand across my face.

“And the worst part…” My voice cracks slightly. “Tyler’s still unconscious. He’s facing the biggest fight of his life. And when he wakes up, he’s going to need that stability more than ever. He’s going to need somewhere safe to recover. Somewhere safe to get stronger.”

I pause to pull in a hard breath.

“A safe place to help him heal.”

A bitter laugh escapes me as I think back to my last conversation with his doctors.

Their warning that his prognosis is still guarded.

That all they know for sure is that he has a long road ahead of him.

That if—not when—he wakes up, he’ll need months, maybe years, of rehab and physical therapy before he has any chance of getting his life back.

Something painful twists low in my chest.

“And that’s what’s killing me. The first time in his life Tyler actually needs what that house was built to be, it’s gone. The first time he absolutely needs the one thing I always promised to provide for him…”

Safety.

Stability.

A soft place to call home.

“And I don’t have it.”

The confession leaves me feeling raw and exposed.

Pathetic, honestly.

Especially when I have to swipe angrily at the tear that escapes before I can stop it.

“James.”

I shake my head, hating how defeated I sound.

“No, it’s okay. You’re right. I know you’re right.” I force out a breath. “I just need to pull it together. Talk to Ben. Get the ball rolling. Stop complaining and do what needs to be done.”

She cups my hand in both of hers and squeezes gently.

“James—”

“Really. It’s okay.” I shake my head again. “It’s my responsibility. It should be me talking to the contractors. Looking at estimates. Making decisions. Doing something.”

Anything besides sitting here feeling sorry for myself.

“Instead, here you are, just like everybody else, being forced to take care of me—”

Two gentle fingers press against my lips, and the words die instantly.

Stunned, I just stare at her.

“First of all,” she says softly, “nobody is being forced to do anything for you.”

Her eyes never leave mine.

“We’re doing it because you matter to us. Because we love you.”

My heart stutters in my chest.

“Second…” She takes a breath. “Maybe you’re right about the house. Maybe it is time to find something different. Some place that feels safer. At least temporarily.”

I stare at her.

She nods, like her mind is already made up.

“Until you figure out what you want to do with your house, you can come home with me.”

The words hit me so hard I almost forget to breathe.

“What?” It comes out more as a gasp than a question.

A small smile touches her lips.

“You can stay with Mom and me. She won’t mind. If anything, she’d love getting to know you better.”

My brain struggles to catch up.

“You told her? About me? About us?”

“Of course I told her.” She laughs softly. “I’m in love with you, James. If we’re planning to be together, everyone was going to find out eventually.”

God.

The way she says that. Like it’s obvious. Like there was never another outcome.

“Plus,” she adds with a grin, “I kind of gave myself away when I told her to stop calling my hospital room and start calling yours instead.”

Despite everything, a small laugh escapes me.

The movement pulls sharply against my injuries, forcing me to suck in a breath as my hand instinctively presses against my midsection.

Annelly’s smile softens immediately.

“Still hurts a lot, huh?”

“Like a son of a bitch,” I admit.

Concern flickers briefly across her face before she gives my hand another gentle squeeze.

“So,” she says softly, “you’ll stay with us. And in the meantime, while you focus on your own healing and taking care of Tyler, why don’t you let me take care of the house?”

Emotion lodges painfully in my throat.

“Snowflake—”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Listen to me.”

The seriousness in her voice silences me instantly.

“Let me do this. I’ll work with Ben. I’ll talk to the contractors. I’ll deal with the estimates and the repairs and all the things you’re dreading.” Her thumb brushes across my knuckles. “Please. Let me do this for you. For Tyler. For us.”

For us.

That’s all it takes.

Her offering to help build us a home. To help rebuild a future not just for Tyler or me, but for the three of us.

And suddenly I’m not looking at a destroyed house anymore.

I’m looking at her.

At the future she’s quietly placing in front of me.

A future where she’s standing beside me, helping me rebuild the life I thought I’d lost, but even better because she’ll be in it.

The three of us.

Together.

And for the first time since this conversation began, hope feels a little easier to hold onto.

❤️

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# Chapter 55

James

The water beats steadily against my skin while I stand motionless beneath the spray.

The water is hot. Painfully so. But still not hot enough to wash away the nightmare clinging to me like black sludge.

I close my eyes and immediately regret it.

Tyler's face flashes through my mind.

Pale.

Bloodied.

Unmoving.

Trapped on the opposite side of the glass, bleeding out, while I throw myself against it over and over again, my fists pounding hard enough to shatter bone but somehow never hard enough to break through.

Never hard enough to reach him.

Never hard enough to save him.

My stomach rolls violently. The image shifts.

Victor on top of Annelly.

The sound of her screams.

Jesus Christ.

My hands flatten against the tile wall as I lower my forehead to the cool surface and force myself to breathe through the lingering panic clawing at my chest.

It wasn't real.

I know that.

I woke up nearly an hour ago.

Tyler is safe in Lakeview Hospital.

Annelly is still asleep in her room across the hall.

But nightmares don't care about facts. They don't care about logic. They sink their claws into your every fear, every morsel of guilt you're already carrying, and force you to watch them play out in the worst possible ways.

The water continues cascading over my shoulders, and for a moment longer, I just stand there. 

Because standing beneath the scalding spray hurts less than climbing back into bed.

Less than closing my eyes and risking another glimpse of that nightmare.

Eventually, it's the ache in my abdomen that forces the issue. A sharp pull radiates across my midsection as I lean forward to reach the handle and turn the water off.

"Fuck." The curse slips out under my breath.

A week home and I still haven't adjusted to this new version of my body. The one where every movement requires thought. Where even the simplest tasks take twice as long as they should.

And I hate it.

It takes nearly twenty minutes to dress in a plain white tee and a pair of gray sweatpants. By the time I quietly ease the bathroom door open, I'm winded from the effort and already exhausted.

The room across the hall remains wrapped in darkness, and I'm grateful because it means she's still sleeping peacefully.

Or at least I hope.

I exhale a tired sigh and peek inside, that restless feeling unwilling to abate until I've seen with my own two eyes that she's here and okay.

It's still dark enough outside that moonlight spills through the curtains, painting pale streaks across the bed.

Across Annelly. 

My beautiful Snowflake.

My chest squeezes painfully.

She's curled on her side beneath the covers, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, breathing slow and even.

Peaceful.

For a moment, I simply stand there watching her. Taking in the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Letting myself believe she's actually safe.

Eighteen days since the shooting, and I still find myself doing this sometimes.

Checking.

Making sure she's really here.

That I didn't somehow lose her that day, back in that club.

The thought follows me downstairs, heavy and unwelcome, the old wooden steps creaking softly beneath my feet.

The house remains quiet as I start the coffee maker. A few minutes later, I settle in at the table with a warm mug cradled between my hands.

Outside the kitchen windows, hints of dawn are beginning to creep across the horizon.

There's something hopeful in that. 

In that brief moment where the sun fights through the darkness and reclaims the sky.

For a few precious minutes, I let myself enjoy the calm. 

The warmth of the coffee. The quiet house. The growing light beyond the windowpanes.

But the peace doesn't last. It never really does. 

As always, the anxious thoughts return.

Tyler.

The house.

Annelly.

The future.

Everything that's still waiting for us on the other side of survival.

The soft sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts just as Rosie appears in the kitchen. She's already dressed for work, purse slung over one shoulder and keys dangling from her fingers.

But then she takes one look at me and stops.

Her eyes soften immediately.

"James?"

I force a small smile.

"Morning."

Instead of answering, she sets her purse down on the counter. Then she studies me for a long moment. Long enough that I know I'm not fooling her.

"Sweetheart," she says gently, "it's barely four in the morning. What are you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep."

Rosie holds my gaze for another moment before letting out a soft sigh.

"Well," she says, setting her keys beside her purse. "I was hoping to beat you to the coffee this morning. You know how I enjoy taking care of you guys."

Despite everything, the corner of my mouth lifts as I think of all the other mornings since we've been here where she's done exactly that.

"Sorry."

"Oh, don't apologize." She waves a hand dismissively before reaching for a mug. "You saved me fifteen whole minutes. That gives us a chance to catch up."

I watch as she pours herself a cup before settling into the chair across from me.

The kitchen falls quiet again, but it's not uncomfortable like one would expect. As I've learned over the past few days, silence with Aunt Rosie—as the entire town calls her—is actually pretty easy.

Rosie wraps both hands around her mug and studies me over the rim.

I already know what's coming.

"You look exhausted."

A humorless laugh escapes me.

"Funny. That's exactly how I feel."

She hums softly, not judging, not pushing. Just quietly taking in the answer. 

And for some reason, I find myself wondering if this is what moms do.

The thought catches me by surprise.

Not because I've never thought about my mother before, but because being under Rosie's roof seems to bring so many of those memories closer to the surface.

Chaotic mornings.

Missed school.

Days spent wondering which version of Mom I'd get each time she walked through the door.

Memories that were anything but peaceful. 

And yet somehow, I still miss them. 

Still miss her.

Hard to believe it hurts this much after all these years.

Across the table, Rosie takes another sip of coffee, completely unaware of where my thoughts have wandered.

"Another nightmare?"

The question is so gentle it almost hurts.

I stare down into my mug, mind spinning through possible answers before settling on the truth.

"Yeah."

She waits.

Not rushing to fill the silence. Not telling me it'll get better. Not offering empty platitudes about time healing all wounds.

Just waiting.

And somehow that makes it easier to talk.

"It was the same as always." The admission comes quietly. 

She nods.

I continue staring into my coffee.

"Tyler. Annelly. Victor hurting them while I was forced to watch, unable to help." I shake my head. "Same horror show. Different night."

Pain tightens across my chest as I pull in a deep breath.

"I keep thinking it'll stop. That eventually my brain will realize Victor's dead and everybody's safe."

My jaw flexes.

"Except that's not really true, is it? Tyler's still unconscious. His future still uncertain."

The words come out rougher than I intend because that's the thing nobody can fix.

Not Ben.

Not the doctors.

Not even me.

"I just..." I stare down into my mug. "I keep waiting for the phone to ring."

Rosie's brow furrows.

I let out a slow breath.

"I keep waiting for the call where someone tells me something else has gone wrong. Maybe with Tyler. Maybe the house. Maybe something else entirely. Something worse."

I shake my head.

"Feels like every time I get my footing lately, the ground disappears from beneath me again."

Like the old days.

Like those terrible years I thought were finally behind me.

When I don't say anything else, Rosie reaches across the table and lays her hand over mine.

"You've been through a lot, sweetheart." Her thumb brushes gently across my knuckles. "It's perfectly normal to feel what you're feeling. Anyone would after everything you've been through."

My throat tightens.

"You nearly died protecting my daughter. Tyler's still in that hospital. Your home was damaged. You've spent weeks carrying more worry than most people carry in a lifetime." She gives my hand another squeeze. "I'd be far more concerned if none of it was affecting you."

Something painful lodges in my chest. Because she's framing it like what I'm feeling isn't weakness. Or failure. Or yet another thing that is wrong with me.

Rosie's expression softens.

"From where I'm sitting, you're exactly where you need to be. Back home. Healing. You and Annelly taking care of each other. Supporting Tyler the best you can." She smiles gently. "Sounds to me like you're doing just fine."

The words are so kind, so motherly, they catch me completely off guard. 

She's not trying to fix things. Not trying to convince me that everything's going to be alright. 

She's just sitting here with me. 

Sharing the weight of my pain while reminding me that maybe I'm not managing as badly as I think I am.

And somehow, that's enough. 

Somehow, it's everything.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 56

James

As I replay her words, a huge lump of emotion lodges firmly in the back of my throat.

I clear it quietly.

“Thank you.” The words come out rough, barely more than a croak.

Rosie’s brows lift slightly.

“For what?”

I huff out a small laugh and shake my head.

How exactly am I supposed to answer that?

Thank you for the coffee every morning. For listening. For treating me like I’m not some basket case. For making this place feel more like home than I ever expected it to.

Instead, I settle on the simplest truth.

“Annelly’s lucky to have you.”

The words leave me before I can overthink them, and immediately I know I’ve stepped into something I don’t fully understand.

Rosie’s smile falters. Something sad flickers across her face before she lowers her gaze to the table.

“I don’t know that she’d agree.”

My brow furrows. Her response catches me completely off guard.

Over the past week, I’ve watched Rosie do exactly what she claims to enjoy most.

Taking care of people.

She packs extra food for Ben and the guys whenever they stop by. Makes enough dinner every night to feed twice as many people as are actually sitting at the table. Checks on me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. Checks on Annelly even more. She’s even shown up at the hospital a few times just to sit with Tyler.

The entire town practically worships the ground she walks on. Hell, everyone in Ruby Creek calls her Aunt Rosie for a reason.

Because she’s spent years taking care of all of them. Being patient. Understanding. Exactly the way I imagine an auntie would be.

So hearing the uncertainty in her voice feels wrong somehow.

“What do you mean?”

Rosie is quiet for a long moment. Long enough that I start to wonder if maybe I crossed a line.

When she finally speaks, her voice is softer.

“Annelly and her father…” A small smile touches her lips. “Well, those two were nearly the same. Cut from the same cloth, as my mother used to say.”

The smile lingers for a moment before turning wistful.

“And I suppose because of that, he always understood her better than I did.”

I lean back slightly in my chair, giving her the same thing she gave me.

Space.

And the chance to be heard.

“He was a dreamer. Just like her. And the two of them together, they created these beautiful imaginary worlds that belonged only to them.” A fond smile touches her lips. “The stories. The endless imagination. The adventures they lived through, all within our perfectly mundane little world.”

Her smile lingers for a moment before fading.

“While they could dream and see a world full of possibilities, me?” She lets out a quiet laugh. “All I ever saw was the endless overwhelm of adult responsibilities.”

I get it instantly.

The diner.

The bills.

The practical things, like making sure the lights stayed on and food stayed on the table.

“For years, that balance worked for us. Though because of it, she became the biggest daddy’s girl while I became the mean parent.” Another smile tugs at her lips, this one sadder. “The one who enforced homework and bedtimes. Rules and curfews. I was the parent while my husband got to be the friend.”

She shakes her head fondly.

“I probably should have resented that. And if I’m honest with myself, sometimes I did.” Her smile softens. “But at the same time, I appreciated it. He was always there for her. Understood her in ways my beautiful little girl deserved. He saw things in her that I missed. Reached parts of her I never quite knew how to reach.”

Her gaze drifts toward the window. Toward the sunrise steadily brightening the sky.

“And he helped me bridge that gap that always seemed to exist between Annelly and me, simply because we saw the world a little differently.”

Something in her expression shifts. The fondness giving way to grief that still hasn’t fully healed.

“But then her father died. And suddenly there wasn’t anybody there to guide me anymore. To stand beside me. To help me be a better mom, not just a caretaker or provider.”

Something painful settles over the kitchen.

“I was scared, James.” The confession is so quiet I almost miss it. “Terrified, if I’m being honest.”

Her fingers tighten around the mug.

“He was gone, and overnight it became my job to make sure she was okay. That she was safe. That somehow the two of us would survive it and be alright in the end. And when she told me she was leaving for Juilliard…” She trails off and shakes her head. “All I could see was my eighteen-year-old daughter, sweet and innocent and completely unprepared for a city that could swallow her whole.”

She lets out a tired sigh, her brown eyes shimmering with sadness.

“I kept thinking about all the things that could happen to her. All the ways she could get hurt. All the ways things could go wrong.”

A humorless laugh escapes her.

“So I did what I’ve always done. I tried to protect her the only way I knew how.”

My chest tightens because I already know where this is going.

“I begged her to stay.” Rosie’s gaze drops to her coffee. “And when that didn’t work, I got angry. I said things I thought might make her stop and think. Things I convinced myself she needed to hear.”

Her fingers tighten around the mug.

“But really…” She shakes her head. “I was scared. And instead of telling her that, I tried to make her scared too.”

The confession settles heavily between us.

A tear slips free and trails slowly down her cheek.

“Instead, all I did was push her further away. I said things I regret.” Her voice cracks slightly. “Things no mother should ever say to her grieving daughter.”

My chest aches unexpectedly, not because I know what was said, but because I know what it feels like to carry around that kind of regret.

Rosie swallows hard.

“I kept telling myself I’d fix it someday. When she finally understood why I said the things I did.”

Her eyes drift toward the bedroom upstairs.

Toward Annelly.

“But then three years passed. And now…” She pauses. “Now it feels like it’s too late. I don’t even know if she needs me anymore. Or if she wants me around. If she even wants me to try.”

Something twists low inside my chest. Because now, I understand what the rift between them is really about.

Not Juilliard.

Not New York.

Not even the fight they had three years ago.

It’s fear.

The fear of being left behind.

The fear of loving someone with your whole heart and still wondering if you’re enough to make them stay.

And that feeling?

I know it far better than anyone.

For a long moment, neither of us says anything.

Rosie stares down at her mug while I sit there thinking about all the things she doesn’t seem to realize. All the things I’ve seen over the last six weeks.

The way Annelly talks about her.

The way she watches over her.

The way she worries.

The little things she does without ever drawing attention to them.

Like baking pastries every evening so they’re ready to take to the diner before sunrise, so her mom doesn’t have to do it. Or setting up the coffee maker every night so all Rosie has to do in the morning is press a button.

Small things.

Easy things to miss if you aren’t paying attention.

“Rosie.”

She looks up.

I hesitate for a moment, trying to figure out how to put something this important into words.

Finally, I settle on the only truth that matters.

“She loves you.”

Rosie’s eyes immediately fill with tears.

“James—”

“It’s true.” I give her a small nod. “She does.”

For reasons I can’t explain, emotion lodges thickly in my throat.

“She talks about you all the time.”

A faint smile touches Rosie’s lips.

“I’m sure. Probably when she’s annoyed with me.”

Despite everything, I huff out a quiet laugh.

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

That earns a small laugh from her too, but it fades quickly.

I lean forward slightly.

“The entire time we were stuck up in that cabin, she worried about you. Especially after she learned Victor had targeted you.”

Her expression tightens.

“Rosie… she was terrified. At one point, she even considered offering herself up to that man, if it meant keeping you and everyone else she loved safe.”

Rosie’s eyes close. Pain flashes across her face, but I don’t stop because she needs to hear this.

I wait until she opens her eyes again.

“You matter to her. You always have.”

Memories of those early days flash through my mind.

Annelly refusing to tell her mother what Victor had done. Refusing to tell her how bad things really were. And now I wonder how much of that came from believing her mother didn’t care. Or maybe from not wanting to admit that beneath all the hurt and anger, her mother had been right to worry.

But the thing I can’t ignore is this:

Even now, after everything that’s happened, Rosie still wishes she could take those words back.

Which means…

“You should tell her. Everything you just told me. She needs to hear it.”

Rosie’s eyes drift back toward her coffee.

“I don’t know.”

“I do.” The certainty in my own voice surprises me. “Because deep down, you’re both looking for the same thing. Love. Connection. Family.”

The words settle heavily between us.

And somehow, they hit me just as hard.

Because suddenly I’m not thinking about Annelly or Rosie anymore.

Now I’m thinking about my mother.

About Tyler and me.

About all the years we spent waiting for her to choose us. Waiting for her to get clean. Waiting for her to come home just to be with us. Waiting for moments that never came.

Then the memory of the last time I saw her slams into me without warning.

My mother lying on that floor. Pale. Motionless. A needle still hanging from her arm.

I swallow hard against the grief rising into my throat.

“Kids don’t stop wanting their parents, Rosie.” My voice comes out rough. Unsteady. “Even when they’re angry. Even when they’re hurt.”

For a moment, neither of us says anything.

Because what else is there to say?

Despite everything…

Despite all of it…

Not a day goes by that I don’t wish my mother was still here.

Not a day goes by that I don’t wish she’d gotten one more chance.

❤️

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# Chapter 57

James

I look back up at Rosie.

"It's not too late. You're still here. So is she."

Something fragile flickers across her face. Hope maybe. But it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

"I don't know if she could ever truly forgive me. After everything, I don't think she'll ever trust me again."

Her gaze drops back to the table.

A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

Because that?

That I understand.

Probably better than most.

My thoughts drift briefly to Tyler. To the angry fourteen-year-old kid who spent years waiting for me to fail him. Waiting for me to abandon him. Waiting for me to prove I wasn't any different from everyone else who had let him down.

Trust hadn't come all at once.

It came one day at a time. 

One promise kept at a time. 

One choice made at a time.

Until eventually, somewhere along the way, he stopped waiting for me to leave. And started believing me when I said I would always be there for him.

I look back at Rosie.

"Then you keep showing up." The words come quietly. "You keep showing her she can trust you."

Rosie watches me carefully.

I shrug one shoulder.

"It's not going to happen overnight. It probably won't happen the first time you try. But if she means what I think she means to you, then you keep trying anyway."

Emotion tightens my throat.

"You keep showing up. You keep loving her. And eventually..." I pause. "One day she'll realize you mean it. That no matter what, you'll always be there for her."

Rosie's eyes glisten. 

So do mine.

But neither of us acknowledges it.

For a moment, she just sits there. Quiet. Absorbing it all.

And when she finally speaks, her voice breaks.

"You really think there's still a chance?"

The question is so small, so vulnerable, my chest tightens. Because that's what she's really been asking all along.

Not whether Annelly loves her. Not whether she's still angry.

But whether it's too late. Whether she missed her chance. Whether she's already lost her.

I think about Annelly.

About the way she talked about her father while we sat side by side, fishing at the lake. The longing in her voice. The grief she still carries.

Then I think about the way she reacted when she learned Victor had targeted her mother. 

How she shut down. How she nearly broke apart.

And suddenly I see it.

The thing she's been missing all this time.

The father she lost.

And the mother who's still here, but standing on the other side of a bridge neither of them knows how to cross.

There isn't a doubt in my mind that this is what Annelly wants.

Hell, what they both want.

"Yeah," I say softly. "I really do."

Rosie blinks rapidly. Another tear slips free.

"Just take that first step. Something tells me she'll meet you halfway."

For a moment she simply nods. Then she laughs softly and wipes at her eyes.

"Well," she says, shaking her head. "I wasn't expecting a therapy session at four o'clock in the morning."

A surprised laugh escapes me.

"Pretty sure I wasn't either."

The smile lingers on her face for another moment before softening.

"Thank you, James."

I shrug awkwardly. 

"It was nothing."

She gives me a look that says she doesn't believe that for a second. Then she tilts her head slightly.

"So, what about you?"

My brow furrows.

"What about me?"

She gestures vaguely between us.

"The entire time we've been sitting here, you've been worried about everyone else. Tyler. Annelly. Me."

A small smile tugs at her lips.

"When do we get to worry about James?"

Heat creeps up the back of my neck, and something strange settles low in my chest.

"I'm fine," I say automatically. "Aside from the nightmares, I'm feeling better every day."

Okay...

Maybe that's a bit of a stretch.

But compared to how I felt a week ago, it's not exactly a lie either.

When Rosie raises an eyebrow, I sigh in defeat. Because apparently the two new women in my life have collectively decided I'm no longer allowed to avoid difficult conversations.

"Let me help, James." Her voice softens. "Tell me what's on your mind."

"It's stupid."

"Those are usually the conversations worth having."

I stare down into my empty mug. Then finally admit the thing that's been bothering me for days.

"I don't know if I'm enough for her." The words leave before I can stop them.

Rosie's expression immediately softens.

"James—"

"No, hear me out." I shake my head. "I know she loves me. That's not what this is."

I drag a hand through my hair.

"I just..." A humorless laugh escapes me. "I've never even taken her out on a proper date."

The confession sounds ridiculous the second it leaves my mouth.

"To this point, our entire relationship has been framed around us hiding. Around me working with the guys to keep her safe. And now that we're finally free of all that, I'm injured and unable to work. Tyler's still in the hospital. My house is a disaster. I'm currently living with her mother, like some deadbeat freeloader, while everybody else takes care of me."

I shake my head.

"With all that, I'm not exactly bringing much to the table right now."

The words feel ugly the second they leave my mouth, but I can't seem to stop them.

"Annelly deserves someone who has his life together. Someone who can actually take care of her instead of being one more thing she has to worry about."

For a moment, Rosie simply watches me.

"James, my daughter left everything she knew behind after losing her father. Moved to New York by herself. Worked odd jobs that barely paid enough to keep a roof over her head. Chased a dream most people would have been too afraid to even attempt."

She pauses, a proud smile appearing on her face. 

"Annelly isn't fragile. She isn't helpless. And she certainly isn't the kind of woman who stays somewhere she doesn't want to be. If she's here, helping you heal, worrying about you, loving you... Then sweetheart, it's because that's exactly where she wants to be."

Something tightens in my chest, not because I don't believe her, but because I do.

Because I know she's right. 

I know that Annelly is here because she wants to be. 

But that doesn't stop the guilt. Doesn't stop the part of me that hates needing so much from her when all I want is to be the one taking care of her instead.

Unfortunately, after spending as much time as I have with Rosie and Annelly Connors, I've learned there's no point arguing with either of them. 

Especially not about something like this.

Stubborn women. 

So damn frustrating.

And somehow impossible not to love.

It's why I settle on, "Maybe."

When Rosie raises an eyebrow at me, I clear my throat. 

Because this conversation has officially become far more uncomfortable than I know how to handle, I decide it's time to change the subject.

"Still doesn't change the fact that the doctors won't even clear me to drive right now." A humorless laugh slips free. "Hard to take your girl out on a proper first date and make a good impression when the only way to get there is by bumming a ride from her mom."

As expected, Rosie laughs.

A real, deep-from-the-belly laugh.

"Sweetheart." Her smile widens. "My daughter spent three years chasing a dream with barely enough money in the bank to survive half the time. And before that, she grew up right here in Ruby Creek. Swimming at the lake and running barefoot through the grass, chasing fireflies with her friends."

The amusement in her eyes grows.

"You really think she cares about being wined and dined? Or fancy dates?"

I open my mouth to object. Then close it again when absolutely nothing comes out.

Rosie smiles knowingly.

"That girl would be perfectly happy with a blanket on the grass, a bag of takeout from the diner, and the man she loves sitting beside her."

She winks, a glimmer of mischief flashing in her eye.

"And as a bonus, no need to bum a ride from her mom. I'm sure she'd be more than happy to drive." 

My chest squeezes because I know she's right.

About all of it.

Including the part where Annelly would happily drive us herself and think nothing of it.

But that still doesn't sit right with me. Because this is Annelly. And she deserves more than a rushed date squeezed in between hospital visits, doctor appointments, and physical therapy. 

She deserves something special. 

Something she'll remember decades from now and still smile about.

Rosie studies me for a moment longer before another smile slowly spreads across her face. It's the kind of smile that instantly makes me nervous.

"Okay," she says. "Tell you what."

My shoulders tense.

"This happens to be an area where I consider myself something of an expert."

Rosie's eyes sparkle with entirely too much enthusiasm.

"I'm going to help you."

I stare at her, completely stunned, and if I'm being honest, a little scared. 

Judging by the growing excitement on her face, my reaction doesn't deter her.

"Rosie—"

She waves a dismissive hand.

"It's alright. Don't you worry about a thing. Here's what we're going to do..."

And just like that, I lose all control of the conversation again.

As she launches into whatever plan is currently forming inside that wonderfully chaotic mind of hers, I find myself smiling despite my best efforts.

Because somewhere along the way, my world somehow expanded beyond just Tyler and me.

Now there's not just Annelly, but Rosie too.

Two amazing women who quietly worked their way past every wall I ever built and refused to leave.

Two more people who care.

Two more people who stay.

And for a man who spent most of his life believing it was just me and my little brother against the world, the realization settles deep in my chest.

Deeper than I know what to do with.

Like maybe, for the first time in our lives, Tyler and I don't have to face the world alone.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 58

Annelly

The house feels strangely quiet. Probably because it’s the first time I’ve been completely alone in what feels like forever.

Mom left for work hours ago, long before the sun came up.

James left with Ben shortly after for a day of meetings. First at the hospital with Tyler’s doctors and then at Offset Tactical Headquarters.

Leaving just little ol’ me here, alone with the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the cozy three-bedroom home my father built for Mom when she was pregnant with me.

Sunlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stretching across the dark hardwood floor, and I take a second to simply breathe it all in.

Months ago, I would have killed for a moment like this. But now that it’s finally here, I’m not entirely sure what to do with myself.

I wrap my arms around myself and stare out the window overlooking our small backyard.

It’s hard to believe it’s only been two weeks since we returned to Ruby Creek. Two weeks since the constant fear that dictated every moment of our lives finally began to loosen its grip.

And somehow, in that short amount of time, everything feels different. Our life here has settled into a quiet rhythm I don’t think either of us expected.

From quiet mornings spent cooking breakfast together in the kitchen where I grew up. To lazy afternoons spent swinging side by side on the porch swing Dad built for Mom.

Then there are the boisterous evenings spent around the dinner table, as we eat Mom’s nightly home-cooked spread, alongside whichever combination of family, friends, and townspeople she drags home from the diner after her shift.

Every night is chaotic.

Loud.

Crowded.

And yet somehow James and I have both come around to loving every second of it.

Maybe because after spending so many months looking over our shoulders, waiting for the next disaster to strike, there’s something comforting about a house so full of life. So full of people. So full of love.

Then there are the conversations between Mom and me. Talks that stretch far longer than they ever used to and somehow feel like reconnection. Like filling a well I never knew was empty. Like finally getting back that piece of myself I lost when Daddy died.

For so many years I resented this place. So much so that I ran from it, fleeing to New York in a desperate attempt to put distance between us.

But now?

Now it suddenly feels like home again.

Maybe because for the first time since Daddy died, I’m finally allowing it to. Or maybe because after suffering without him for so long, I finally realize he never truly left us.

He’s still here.

Everywhere I look.

In the old stones of the fireplace I watched him rebuild when I was little.

In the small repairs scattered throughout the house that still bear the mark of his hands.

In every corner of this beautiful home he loved enough to create for us.

But he’s also still here in mom and me.

I see him in the way we’re learning to communicate again. In the way we’re working harder to understand each other. In the way we’re learning to accept each other’s flaws and love one another anyway.

Because above all else, those flaws are part of what makes us who we are.

And because, at the end of the day, that’s what Daddy would have wanted. For us to find our way back to each other. For us to find a way forward together while he watches from wherever he is.

A small, watery smile tugs at my lips as the thought of him watching over us with that loving smile of his settles warmly deep inside my chest.

But as comforting as all of that is, it isn’t long before my mind inevitably drifts back to James, my smile fading as if it was never there at all.

Because that’s the part that hurts the most.

That while for the first time in months, maybe years, I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, James is still struggling to find his way through the darkness.

Every day he still hurts, both physically and emotionally. All while pretending what he’s going through isn’t as bad as it seems, all to keep from worrying me.

Every day he pushes himself a little harder than he should. Much harder than his body is ready for.

Then there are the nightmares that still wake him. The fact that Tyler is still lying unconscious in a hospital bed. The damage to his home.

For James, the future still feels uncertain, and no matter how many times he reassures me he’s okay, no matter how hard he tries to hide what he’s going through from me, I see every bit of the strain he’s under.

I see it in the quiet moments when he thinks no one is watching.

I see it in the distant looks, when his eyes drift away and become swallowed by the pain he tries so hard to bury.

I see it in the way he reaches for me in his sleep. In the way he sometimes holds me so tightly, it almost hurts.

My chest tightens as I remember the heaviness in his expression when he kissed me goodbye just this morning.

My heart hurts because if anyone deserves a little peace right now, it’s James. And more than anything, I wish I could be the person to give that to him.

The shrill vibration of my phone against the kitchen counter breaks through my thoughts.

I push away from the living room window and walk back into the kitchen, a soft smile immediately returning to my lips when I glance down at the screen.

Right on time, as always. The first phone call of the day comes right after breakfast rush ends.

I answer on the second ring.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart.” The familiar sounds of the diner fill the background. Clattering dishes. Voices drifting in and out. The steady hum of the place that’s been like a second home to me for as long as I can remember. “Just checking in. How are you feeling?”

A smile tugs at my lips as I lean back against the counter.

“I’m good.”

And for once, it isn’t a lie.

For so long, every version of that answer came with unspoken conditions.

I’m good… considering Victor is still out there.

I’m good… considering James was shot and almost died.

I’m good… considering I had to run for my life in the middle of the night and leave behind the future I’d worked so hard for.

But today?

Today the word finally feels true.

If not for everything James is still going through, I’d probably say I was doing great.

“What about James?” Mom asks. “How did he seem today?”

I glance toward the front door as though I might somehow find him still standing there.

“About the same as last night.” I sigh softly. “He’s trying to do too much while holding everything in.”

A dramatic gasp greets me from the other end of the line.

“Really? Well, that doesn’t sound like James at all.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“No, it doesn’t. Not even a little.”

The amusement lingers for a few beats before reality settles back in.

“He had another rough night then?” she asks.

“Yeah.” My grip tightens slightly around the phone. “He’s trying so hard to hide what he’s going through, Mom.”

“I know he is.”

And somehow those four simple words ease something inside me.

Because it means I’m not imagining it.

She sees it too.

“I don’t know what to do, Mom. I don’t know how to help him.”

“You can’t fix all of that for him, sweetheart.”

Her words are gentle, but still matter-of-fact. Spoken by someone who has spent a lifetime caring for people.

“I know.”

And I do.

But that doesn’t stop me from wishing I could.

“He’s strong, Annelly. He’s been through a lot in his life, and still came out on the other side. It’s how I know he’ll eventually figure this out too. For now, all we can do is be there for him as he and Tyler find their footing again.”

“You’re right.”

A tired sigh escapes me as I allow her words to settle around me, bringing more comfort than I thought possible given the circumstances.

For a moment we sink into silence, which for once isn’t awkward or uncomfortable. If anything, it feels safe. Like she’s simply there on the other end of the line, holding space for me to feel what I feel.

A year ago, I never would have believed this was possible.

A year ago, two minutes on the phone with her would have had me desperately searching for any excuse to hang up.

Finally, Mom clears her throat.

“So, what about you?”

“What about me?”

I narrow my eyes as that old familiar touch of defensiveness, the one that became a reflex over years of conversations that began just like this, rears its ugly head.

As they say…

Old habits die hard.

Only this time, instead of reacting, I take a slow breath and make the choice to hear her out first.

Like she senses that old instinct in me, she hesitates.

And suddenly, I realize how much I hate that.

Hate that somewhere along the way, my reactions conditioned her to be careful around me. Taught her to second-guess simple questions. Made her worry about saying the wrong thing.

“It’s okay, Mom.” My voice softens. “Please tell me.”

“I just…” She trails off for a moment. “I was wondering if you’ve given any thought to what happens next.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean for you. Now that you’re safe and that man is finally out of your life, do you plan to go back to New York?”

At the question, my heart sinks.

Almost instinctively, my gaze drifts toward the front yard. Toward the porch swing James and I spent most of yesterday afternoon occupying. Toward the life that somehow feels more real than the one I spent years chasing.

“I don’t know.”

Even though it’s the truth, saying it out loud somehow feels wrong.

I mean… for years, New York was all I wanted.

Juilliard.

Auditions.

The first leading role.

The next opportunity.

One step after another toward the dream I’d built my entire future around.

Broadway.

But somewhere along the way, for reasons I can’t fully explain, that future stopped fitting.

And now, after everything?

I can’t seem to stomach the thought of returning to that life.

The only problem is that for the first time in years, since before high school, I have no idea what comes next.

Like she senses I need a moment, Mom stays quiet. Then, after several long seconds, her voice softens.

“Maybe for now, that’s okay.”

I frown.

“No, Mom. Nothing about this is okay. I don’t have a plan anymore. And that’s after wasting almost four years chasing something I don’t think I even want.”

Emotion clogs my throat, and I stop to pull in a sharp breath.

“Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? For as long as I can remember, I always knew what came next, and now…what am I supposed to do if I don’t even know what I want?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice fills with affection. “I don’t think that’s the problem.”

“No?”

“No.” I can practically hear her smiling. “I think you know exactly what you want. I think what you’re actually looking for is permission.”

I blink.

“Permission?”

“Yes. Permission to change your mind. To want something different. To choose a different path than the one you imagined when you were eighteen.”

She pauses.

“And even though you don’t need it, if it helps, I’ll gladly give it to you.”

A watery laugh escapes me.

Mom clears her throat loudly, then pauses again for dramatic effect in a way that somehow makes me smile through the tears quietly gathering in my eyes.

“Annelly, my love, you’re allowed to want something different.”

Her voice softens.

“You’re allowed to explore. You’re allowed to stop and smell the roses every now and then, especially if it’s helping you find yourself again.”

I close my eyes, one hand pressed over my heart as I swallow around the lump in my throat.

“The future isn’t written in stone, sweetheart. It’s more like a lump of clay. It can be molded and reshaped in a hundred different ways, a hundred different times, before becoming what it’s meant to be. All you have to do is trust yourself enough to take it in your hands and let your heart guide what comes next.”

As her words settle inside me, the tears finally spill over.

A messy mix of grief for the father I lost.

For the dream I spent years believing we shared.

For the version of the future I’ve been trying so desperately to hold on to… if only because letting go of it felt a little like letting go of him too.

But they’re also relief.

Joy.

Fear.

Hope.

And most of all, love.

Love for my dad. For my mom. For the two people who shaped me into who I am.

And finally, love for James.

Because Mom is right about this one thing. I do know exactly what I want.

Most of all, what I want is a life with him.

Everything else beyond that is just details that can be worked out later.

“Thank you, Mom.” I manage the words, though I’m a quivering mess.

“No need for that, my love. Just know that no matter what you decide to do with the rest of your life, I’ll always be proud of the woman you were, the woman you are now, and the one you’ve yet to become.”

Emotion swells in my chest. Because that’s yet another thing she’s right about.

The girl who left Ruby Creek at eighteen years old to chase her dreams of Broadway would have done almost anything to escape the life she came from.

She was desperate to disappear. To become someone else. To outrun the grief she didn’t know how to carry.

But that girl doesn’t exist anymore.

And maybe it’s finally time I stop trying to build a future for her.

Maybe it’s time I start building a future for the woman I want to become instead.

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally FREE .

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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

# Chapter 59

Annelly

For a long moment after ending the call with Mom, I remain exactly where I am, standing in the middle of the kitchen, phone still in hand, heart still full.

The tears have stopped, but the emotions linger, settling somewhere deep inside me.

Hope.

Fear.

Relief.

And the kind of peace that comes from finally admitting a truth you've been avoiding for far too long.

Eventually, I set my phone down and glance around the quiet house. 

The silence feels different now. Lighter and brighter, somehow. Like a door I didn't even realize I'd been holding shut has finally sprung open, letting more light in.

Suddenly eager to do something with all these thoughts swirling through me, I make my way upstairs and down the hall toward my childhood bedroom, the one James and I have been sharing since returning to Ruby Creek.

My gaze immediately drifts toward the small stack of unpacked belongings sitting beside the dresser. Most are just the things I brought back with me from our time hiding at James's house and then the cabin. But hidden underneath is the one thing I most need right now.

I left New York so quickly that night that I had no choice but to abandon almost everything I owned. But there was one thing I couldn't bring myself to leave behind.

I cross the room and kneel beside the stack, moving everything aside until there it is.  The lone box that made it back with me from New York that night.

Wasting no time, I pull it out and sit on the floor beside it. Dust dances through the sunlight spilling across the carpet as I lift the lid, but inside, everything is exactly as I remember it.

Scripts.

Playbills.

Class notes.

Old audition packets.

Programs from productions I performed in while attending Juilliard.

A lifetime of theatrical achievements crammed into a single cardboard box.

My fingers brush across the worn edges of a script from my sophomore year, and the memory arrives instantly.

Late nights with the cast.

Long rehearsals.

The exhaustion.

Then the thrill of stepping onto the stage and disappearing into someone else's story for a few hours.

A small smile tugs at my lips because, despite how hard most days were on me, I still loved it. 

Really loved it.

Even New York, for as bright, loud, and impersonal as it could be, holds some of my favorite memories.

Walking the streets with my friends while we recited lines between classes.

Taking the subway.

Meeting people from all walks of life and experiencing things I never would have imagined growing up in Ruby Creek.

Sitting here now, surrounded by pieces of that life, there's no denying it.

Leaving back then had been the right choice for me.

Because New York... 

It gave me so much.

Independence.

Confidence.

Friendships.

Experiences I never would have had if I'd stayed here.

New York taught me how to survive on my own.

How to fail.

How to recover.

How to keep moving forward when things didn't go according to plan.

My hands then drift to another stack of folders.

Headshots.

Resumes.

Audition notices.

Evidence of a girl who spent years believing she knew exactly what her future would look like and worked tirelessly to make it happen.

The Broadway stage.

That had always been the goal. 

The destination. 

The dream.

But now, looking at all of it, I realize something that probably should have been obvious years ago.

My dream of the big stage wasn't the only reason I left. If I'm really honest with myself, it might not have even been the biggest one.

I wasn't just chasing a future. I was escaping my past.

Running from the grief that swallowed our house after Daddy died. 

Running from the growing distance between Mom and me.

Running from all the things I didn't know how to fix.

New York gave me that out. Something else to focus on. A dream big enough to drown out everything that hurt, but which still helped me feel connected to my dad.

And it worked for a while.

Until it didn't.

My gaze drifts back to the box. To the pieces of a life that no longer feel like mine. 

Not because it wasn't important, or real, or what I wanted... but because I think at this point, I've grown beyond it. 

The same way people outgrow old clothes. Or childhood bedrooms. Or versions of themselves.

A photograph slips free from between two scripts, and I pick it up. It's a cast photo from freshman year.

A group of baby-faced students, all smiles and excitement. And there, front row center, a younger version of me stares back from the glossy paper.

An innocent eighteen-year-old girl. Certain in all the ways that mattered back then. Determined that this was her big break. Convinced that happiness existed somewhere on the other side of her big adventure.

My chest tightens suddenly, not with regret, but with understanding. 

Because that version of me... 

She was hurting. And she was doing the best she could with the tools she had. Trying so hard to outrun the things that scared her. Trying so hard to build a life that felt bigger than her grief.

And despite all her mistakes, she got us here.

The thought brings an unexpected lump to my throat.

Because for so long I've looked back at that version of myself with frustration. Embarrassment. Shame. Even anger.

But now?

Now I mostly feel grateful.

Grateful she was brave enough to leave. Grateful she chased the dream. Grateful she survived everything that came after.

Even Victor.

Especially Victor.

The thought should maybe feel wrong, but it doesn't. Because while I would never wish those experiences on anyone, surviving that man forced me to discover parts of myself I never knew existed. 

Not because of what he did to me. 

But because of what I refused to let him take from me.

My strength.

My resilience.

My courage.

My ability to keep loving even after being hurt.

My ability to trust again.

My ability to begin again.

I set the photograph and old scripts back inside the box where they belong and slowly close the lid.

For years, I thought New York was at the root of my story. It was where I thought my life would finally begin. The thing that would shape me into the version of myself I was supposed to become.

But sitting here now, I finally understand that New York, Juilliard, Broadway... they were never my destination.

They were simply one chapter of my life.

An important one.

A necessary one.

But a chapter all the same.

And for the first time in a very long time, I find myself wondering what the next chapter might look like.

The thought lingers long after I close the box. 

Long after I slide it back into the hidden corner by the dresser.

Long after I settle onto the edge of my bed.

Because for what feels like my entire life, every version of my future looked exactly the same.

The bright lights.

The packed theaters.

The standing ovations.

The dream had always been so clear that I'd never really stopped to consider any other possibility.

But now, for the first time, I allow myself to.

My gaze drifts toward the bedroom window. Toward the sunshine spilling across the backyard. Toward the quiet little town I once couldn't wait to escape.

And suddenly, instead of feeling trapped by the uncertainty, I find myself curious about it. 

Because maybe the dream isn't gone. 

Maybe it's simply changed.

And the moment that thought settles inside me, my mind drifts back to Daddy. To that first theatre production he took me to when I was only six.

I remember sitting cross-legged in the seat beside him in that crowded high school auditorium while we waited for the curtains to rise.

I remember the excitement buzzing through the room.

The smell of popcorn.

The way Daddy kept grinning at me every few seconds because he was somehow even more excited than I was.

Rapunzel.

That was the play, and I swear I'll never forget it.

A high school production put on by students and volunteers who spent months building sets, sewing costumes, and rehearsing after school and on weekends.

At the time, the entire experience felt magical. 

I still remember sitting there, completely mesmerized as the actors and elaborate set designs brought the story to life.

And afterward?

I couldn't stop talking about it.

I talked all the way home. I talked all through dinner. Heck, I probably talked about it for months afterward, much to Mom's dismay.

And every single time, Daddy would just listen. A bright smile on his face as he encouraged every excited thought that spilled out of me. As though nothing in the world was more important than whatever observation his six-year-old daughter had just made. As though every word I had to say mattered.

And somewhere along the way, he taught me that stories matter too. 

Because they help people feel less alone.

Something warm and achingly familiar settles in my chest.

Because somewhere along the way, I'd convinced myself that honoring him meant reaching Broadway. That if I wasn't standing on some grand stage by the end of my journey, telling stories that mattered, then somehow I'd failed him.

But sitting here now, thinking back on that little girl and that crowded high school auditorium, I realize how ridiculous that sounds. 

Because the stage was never the point. 

The stories were. 

The connection to the people watching. 

The joy. 

The ability to make someone laugh. 

Or cry. 

Or feel understood.

The ability to bring people together for a few hours and remind them they aren't alone. 

To remind them that life is meant to be lived together.

In family.

In community.

In the shared experience.

That's what I fell in love with all those years ago.

Not New York.

Not Broadway.

But the theater experience itself.

A slow smile spreads across my face.

Because suddenly possibilities begin appearing where before there had only been uncertainty.

Ruby Creek has a community theater. The high school still has a drama program.

There are kids sitting exactly where I once sat, trying to figure out who they are and what they want to become. 

Kids who might need someone to encourage them the same way Daddy and my teachers encouraged me. 

Kids who might just need someone to believe in them. In their dreams. 

Someone to help them find their voice. 

Or their place in the world.

The thought sends a small spark of excitement through me, because for the first time since leaving New York, something actually feels right.

Before I can overthink it, I reach for my phone.

The familiar contact appears almost immediately.

Mrs. Morancik.

My old theatre teacher.

The woman who spent six years encouraging and supporting a dramatic teenage girl who treated every performance like it was a matter of life and death.

A laugh slips free as I type out a quick message. Nothing complicated. Just a simple question asking if she'd be willing to meet for coffee sometime next week.

My thumb hovers over the screen for half a second. 

Then I hit send.

The message disappears.

And just like that, something shifts inside me.

The future still isn't clear. I still don't know exactly what comes next. But for the first time in a very long time, that doesn't feel like a problem.

I'm no longer standing still.

I'm moving again.

And somehow, that feels like the beginning of my next chapter.

❤️

 
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REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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Chapter 60

Annelly

The thought lingers as I set my phone down beside me.

For the first time in what feels like forever, the future doesn’t seem quite so intimidating. Even as I don’t have all the answers. Even as I don’t have a five-year plan. Even as, looking ahead, I have no idea what my life will look like six months from now.

Somehow that uncertainty feels less like something to fear and more like something to explore.

A small smile tugs at my lips as my mind races with possibilities instead of doubts. Not that I get the chance to dwell on them for very long, for out of nowhere, my phone begins vibrating beside me.

The sound startles me enough that I nearly jump. When I glance down at the screen, my entire chest immediately flutters.

James.

His name glows across the display, and just like that, every thought I’d been having disappears. Replaced instead by warmth. By anticipation. By something dangerously close to excitement.

The smile already on my face grows before I can stop it.

It’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

I’ve spent months with this man. Months sleeping beside him. Months sharing a roof over our heads, meals, countless sunrises and sunsets. Talking to him. Laughing with him. Falling hopelessly in love with him.

And somehow seeing his name appear on my phone still makes my stomach do little flips.

Maybe because for the first time, we’re not hiding or communicating through burner phones. We’re not looking over our shoulders or bracing to survive the next potential threat.

It’s just James calling me on a random afternoon like normal people do.

And that right there, that word normal…

God, have I missed normal.

Still smiling, I swipe my thumb across the screen and lift the phone to my ear.

“Hey, you.” The smile in my voice is impossible to hide.

And judging by the soft huff of laughter that immediately greets me from the other end of the line, James hears it too.

“Hey, Snowflake.”

Warmth blooms in my chest at the sound of his voice.

For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. Like we’re both just quietly sitting there, smiling and soaking in the simple normalcy of this moment.

Only when it finally feels right do I speak.

“So, how did everything go today? With Tyler’s doctors?” I ask softly.

As is habit now, I count the seconds of silence that follow because they often tell me more than James is willing to put into words. As usual, it lasts just long enough for him to decide how much of the truth he’s willing to burden me with.

“The meeting went alright. No change.”

There it is. That careful voice. That measured tone he uses whenever he’s trying not to worry me.

My heart aches a little, longing for the day he’ll simply tell me what he’s feeling without me having to pull it out of him.

“James, the doctors wouldn’t have called a meeting unless there was something that needed discussing.”

A tired sigh crackles through the line.

“It’s the same bullshit as last week. The doctors still want to wait to wake him.”

I close my eyes, sad and disappointed for both Tyler and James. “Okay.”

“They repeated the scans this morning. There’s still swelling.” His voice remains steady. Controlled. Professional. Like he’s reading from a report instead of talking about the person he loves most in the world. “They said that’s not unusual, considering everything his brain has been through.”

“Alright. What else?” Because there’s always something else. One last piece of truth he always tries to hold onto.

Another pause.

“They still don’t know how extensive the damage is. There’s concern that because of the area of his brain affected, he may have trouble with short-term memory. How extensive or debilitating that is, they won’t know until he wakes up.”

The words settle heavily between us, not because we didn’t already know that was a possibility, but because each time the details of his prognosis are spoken out loud, they somehow make the situation feel even more real.

My fingers tighten around the phone, and for a moment neither of us speaks.

I picture Tyler lying in that hospital bed.

I picture James sitting beside him day after day, willing his brother to wake up through sheer force of determination.

Waiting.

Watching.

Helpless.

Three things James Serrano has never been particularly good at.

“I hate this.” His admission slips out quietly, sounding tired, defeated, and somehow this version of James hurts me the most.

“I know.” My voice softens. “I know you do. I hate it too.”

I pause.

“I know it isn’t easy, but we have to keep holding on to hope. He’s still here. And his body is still showing signs of improvement every day.”

“Yeah. True.” He exhales a tired sigh, and I can practically hear him running a hand over his face.

“I just…” He trails off. “I feel like every time I walk into this hospital, I’m expecting the worst.”

A humorless laugh follows.

“Hell, maybe that’s for the best. Better to be surprised than disappointed in the end.”

My chest squeezes painfully. Because somewhere along the way, the man I love has started finding it easier to expect tragedy than to hope for a miracle.

He’s scared. I know that.

And the fact that there’s nothing I can do to fix what he’s going through only makes this harder.

I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes, reminding myself that the best thing I can do right now is simply sit here. Listening. Being there. Loving him through it.

“You know what I think?” I say finally.

James exhales softly. “What’s that?”

“I think Tyler’s lucky.”

A quiet huff of amusement reaches me. “That’s a new one, considering the sorry state he’s in.”

“I’m being serious, James.” Emotion catches unexpectedly in my throat. “He has you. Plus an entire army of people rooting for him. Praying for him. Waiting for him to wake up.”

The line goes quiet.

My smile softens.

“And if stubbornness is hereditary—which, knowing the two of you, I have a feeling it is—then I think it’s only a matter of time before all of this is nothing but a distant memory.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Mr. Serrano…” I place a hand dramatically against my chest. “Haven’t you learned by now? I’m always right. Especially when it comes to things like this.”

A real laugh escapes him then. It’s small, much too brief, but real nonetheless.

And it feels like a victory.

Because for the first time all day, James sounds a little less afraid.

And right now?

I’ll take that as a win.

❤️

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# Chapter 61

Annelly

Not for the first time during this call, I find myself wishing he were here so I could kiss him.

"I miss you." The words leave before I can stop them.

A shocked sort of silence greets me from the other end of the line and my smile grows. Because I know exactly what's happening right now.

James is panicking. 

Not in a life-threatening emergency kind of way, but in a James Serrano freaking out kind of way. 

It happens every time. The minute I say something affectionate, something he doesn't expect, it's like his brain immediately short-circuits.

I laugh softly. "You there?"

"Yeah... uh, I'm here." The response comes entirely too quickly and not at all convincing.

My smile widens.

"James."

"Snowflake."

"Did I break you?"

A low groan rumbles through the speaker. 

"Maybe. Look, you need to stop saying things like that. Especially when I'm not there right next to you."

The laugh that escapes me this time is impossible to contain.

"That would be incredibly weird, don't you think? Considering the whole point of missing someone is that they're not actually there with you when you say it?"

Somehow, I can hear the sheepish smile tugging at his lips. 

"Go easy on me, snowflake. Please." His voice is warm now. Embarrassed. And so ridiculously endearing that my heart practically melts.

"Okay. I'll do my best."

A huff of amusement reaches me. Then, after a moment, his voice softens.

"I miss you too."

The admission is quiet. Almost reluctant. Like he's still getting used to saying things like that out loud.

Something soft unfurls inside me.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The single word settles somewhere deep in my chest.

"So," he says, clearing his throat again. "What've you been up to all day?"

The abrupt change of subject is so transparent that I laugh.

"Wow. That was subtle."

A long-suffering sigh crackles through the line. "Annelly... I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Uh-huh."

Another low chuckle comes through the line, but luckily for him, I decide to put him out of his misery.

"Nothing exciting." I stretch out across the bed. "Mostly unpacking. Cleaning. Going through some of my old stuff."

"Sounds thrilling."

"I know. Try not to be jealous."

"I'll do my best."

I smile at the easy rhythm settling between us, once again loving how normal this feels.

For the next few moments, we simply talk. About nothing. And somehow that nothing feels like everything.

Then something shifts. It's subtle at first.

A slight hesitation.

A pause that doesn't quite belong.

My smile slowly fades because suddenly I realize James is acting weird.

Not bad weird. Not something-is-wrong weird. Just...

Weird.

"James."

"Yeah?"

I narrow my eyes.

"What's happening?"

A beat of silence follows.

"Nothing. I'm talking to you?"

My smile returns instantly. "Uh-huh."

"I'm serious."

"Mm-hmm."

Another pause.

"Look, Snowflake..." He exhales. "I'm just working up the courage to tell you something. Give your man a second, okay?"

A spark of excitement immediately flares to life inside my chest.

"James Serrano, stop stalling."

"Annelly Connors, you need to learn patience."

"Oh, absolutely not." I laugh. "You, of all people, do not get to lecture me about patience."

"Snowflake—"

"No." I sit up a little straighter. "Now spill it. What are you hiding from me?"

Another sigh crackles through the phone. And when he speaks again, he sounds suspiciously nervous.

"It's not a big deal."

"Oh my God, James." I laugh again, harder this time. "Just say it."

A low groan rumbles through the line.

Then silence. 

The kind that only happens when James needs a minute to find the right words.

Finally, he exhales.

"Okay. Here it goes."

I sit up a little straighter on the bed.

"Tonight." One word is all he manages. Like the rest have gotten stuck somewhere in his throat. 

And yet it's enough to send a swarm of butterflies fluttering through my belly.

"Tonight?" I repeat, barely containing my excitement. Because never in all the time I've known James has he ever acted like this.

"I..." He clears his throat. "I made plans for us."

My heart immediately skips a beat. For a second, I can't seem to find my voice. Because surely he doesn't mean—

"Plans?"

A nervous laugh escapes him, and suddenly I know I'm right.

"Yeah." Another pause. "A date. Our first one."

For a second, I just stare at the wall in front of me.

A date. An actual date.

Not a meal spent together while hiding in a cabin. Not a random box of pizza between strategy meetings. Not stealing a few quiet moments at a safehouse while the team watched us through surveillance cameras.

A real date.

The smile that spreads across my face is completely unstoppable.

"Oh, wow, James."

Immediately, he sounds concerned.

"What? Are you... Is that not what you want?"

The uncertainty in his voice is so unmistakably James that my heart squeezes.

"Oh my gosh, yes. Of course, it's what I want. Wow. Okay. Tell me everything. What are we doing? Where are we going? What should I wear? And my hair—"

The questions rush out of me, and I hear him chuckle, probably in relief.

"Whoa there. Relax, Snowflake. Everything's already taken care of."

Taken care of?

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He clears his throat. "I bought you a dress."

"You what?" I whisper.

"It's hanging behind your mom's bedroom door. There's a box of new shoes, too. Should be sitting on her bed."

"James... oh my gosh." I cover my mouth as emotion rushes through me.

"Around four, Emilia and Jen are coming over—"

I laugh, cutting him off. 

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes." The amusement in his voice only makes me smile harder. "They'll take care of your hair and makeup. Make you feel all pretty. Not that you need it, since you're already by far the most beautiful woman I've ever met."

A laugh bubbles out of me, just as the tears begin to fall.

"At six, my driver will be picking you up."

I laugh through my tears. Again. I can't seem to help it.

"Your driver?"

"Yep," he chuckles softly. "His name is Zeb. You might have heard of him."

I laugh.

"And where exactly is your driver taking me?"

"It's a surprise. You'll have to wait and see."

"James, come on."

"Nope." The confidence in his voice now is unmistakable. "No arguments. Any other time, I'd give you whatever you wanted, but not for this. Not this time."

I smile.

"James."

"I said no, Snowflake." His response is immediate. "I just need you to trust me on this, okay? I really want this to be special."

The sincerity in his voice steals the rest of the fight out of me.

For a moment I just sit there, emotion tightening my throat as I try to absorb everything he's done.

Then quietly, almost shyly, I give him what I know he wants to hear.

"Alright, Mr. Serrano. We'll do it your way."

The silence that follows feels different somehow. Softer. Warmer. And yet charged with everything the night might hold.

But then James clears his throat, and instantly my insecure man is back.

"Annelly, just uh..."

My smile falters.

"I've never—"

"Never what?" 

A pause.

"Done this before. Just... if I mess this up in any way, which knowing me I probably will, don't give up on me. Let me try again. And again if I have to. I promise eventually I'll get it right."

The confession comes quietly. Like he hates that he even has to say it.

My heart squeezes.

"James—"

"There's no need to soften this for me." His laugh is soft and self-deprecating. "I'm not saying it so you'll make me feel better. I just wanted to remind you that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing here. So if it turns out terrible, maybe you can let me down easy."

After everything he's done, every special, romantic moment he created for us, even in that cabin, I can't believe he's still worried it won't be enough.

A lump rises in my throat.

"James, nothing you do for me could ever disappoint me. All that matters to me is that you're going to be there." I smile through my tears, voice trembling. "You're all I want. All I need."

For a moment, neither of us speaks. And somehow I know I've broken him again.

Then a quiet breath reaches me through the speaker, and somehow I know he finally gets it.

"Six o'clock," he says softly.

I smile.

"Six o'clock."

"Don't be late."

The laugh that escapes me is immediate.

"Me? I wouldn't dream of it."

His chuckle follows mine.

Then quietly he declares, "I love you, Annelly."

My heart melts.

"I love you, too."

Then reluctantly, we hang up.

For a long moment, I stare down at my phone, tears still sliding down my cheeks and a smile I can't seem to shake.

Because after everything we've survived, James and I are finally getting the chance to do something neither of us has done in a very long time.

Live.

Breathe.

And simply be happy.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
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"Follow"
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REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 62

Annelly

“Close your eyes.”

I do as Jen instructs without argument, feeling the soft sweep of a makeup brush glide across my eyelid.

“Perfect,” she murmurs. “Don’t move.”

Across the room, I hear the soft crinkle of tissue paper as Emilia sorts through the garment bag James left for me.

“You know,” she says, “if someone had told me five years ago that James Serrano would one day be buying dresses for my little cousin, I probably would’ve laughed in their face.”

Jen snorts.

“Five years ago? Honey, if you’d told me six months ago, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

A smile tugs at my lips.

“I don’t know why everyone seems so surprised.”

It’s a big fat lie. They know it just as well as I do, which is probably why it’s taking everything in me not to grin even wider.

The room falls impossibly silent.

Curious, I crack one eye open just enough to find both of them staring at me.

“You can’t be serious,” Jen says.

I blink, feigning innocence. “What?”

“Annelly,” Emilia says, sounding far too patient, “we are talking about James Serrano, right?”

“The James Serrano,” Jen says. “The former international model whose first underwear campaign plastered his handsome face and ridiculously hot body across magazines and billboards all over the world.”

“The very same,” Emilia agrees.

“The James Serrano who was rumored to have standing-room-only lines of women outside his hotel rooms, no matter what city—or country—all patiently waiting for their turn with the man, like he was some damn amusement park ride they couldn’t wait to try.”

“And let’s not forget,” Emilia adds dryly, “the man who couldn’t commit to a woman if his life depended on it.”

“Exactly.” Jen points at her like she’s just won a prize. “We’re talking about a man who treated sleeping with every female tourist who wandered into our fine little town like it was some sort of public service.”

“Yep. All part of the Ruby Creek experience,” Emilia chimes in, fighting off a smirk like she can’t help herself.

“Oh, my God,” I groan, my cheeks warming as Jen dabs another brush across them. “Alright. Enough. I get it.”

I’m not oblivious to that version of James.

Like everyone else, I’d heard the stories. The rumors. The women who came into the diner the next morning, happily recounting their nights with him and gushing over their luck at having spent time with our small-town celebrity.

Which, I suppose in a way, is exactly what he was.

James Serrano the model, with that thick black hair and crystal blue eyes, was—by just about every measure—every woman’s fantasy.

Thankfully, because I was away at school—and because I never ran in those party circles whenever I was home—I never had to witness any of it myself.

Well…

Except for that night.

The night I walked up to Souders Bar & Grill, looking to pick up some takeout for Mom and me. And to both our surprise, I ran straight into him and that girl, Briana.

He had her pinned against the wall. Their lips locked in a consuming kiss as his hands traveled expertly over her body.

We were just friends, so it shouldn’t have been a thing. But when he saw me standing there, it was like he panicked.

There really isn’t any other way to describe it.

By the next morning, he was giving me the speech of all speeches and abruptly ended the friendship we’d built through the summer.

Back then, I genuinely thought he was pushing me away because he didn’t care.

Now I see it differently.

Even then, it’s obvious James had feelings for me. Real ones. The kind he didn’t know what to do with, so he fell back on what came naturally to him.

He pushed me away.

Unexpectedly, a small smile touches my lips. Because that was our past, and this today… this is our present.

Over the past few months, I’ve watched him fight to become a different man. I’ve watched him open himself up to love, to vulnerability, to the possibility of a future neither of us ever believed we’d have. And if there’s one thing I know without question, it’s that James loves me.

I take a slow breath and let the last of the tension melt away.

The man waiting for me tonight isn’t the James from back then.

No.

This James is mine.

“He was a bit of a bad boy back then,” I admit.

They both laugh, and my smile returns.

“That might be a bit of an understatement,” Jen says as she gently turns my face from side to side, inspecting her work.

“Maybe.” I smile at our reflections in the mirror. “But that was then… and this is now.”

My thoughts drift back to our phone call earlier. James stumbling over his words as he told me about the date. Then quietly admitting he was afraid he’d somehow disappoint me.

The memory makes me smile.

Little does he know, I don’t think there’s a single thing he could ever do for me that would disappoint me.

“He’s good to me.” My smile softens. “And he makes me happy.”

The words settle warmly inside my chest.

Across the room, my cousin lets out a soft whistle.

“He sure is. Wow! Look at this dress… and the shoes. My gosh, Jen. Come look at this.”

Jen wastes no time crossing the room.

She stops beside Emilia, her eyes scanning the dress before widening.

“Wait…” She leans closer. “Tell me that doesn’t say Viviane Fleury.”

“It absolutely says Viviane Fleury.”

A beat passes, and I look between them from where I’m still sitting at my vanity, not understanding.

“James bought this? Our James?” Jen doesn’t wait for us to answer. “Does he realize this dress probably cost more than my first car?”

“I’m sure he does. He’s the one who bought it.” My cousin looks at me then, her smile bright and knowing. “Along with the beautifully coordinated shoes.”

“Get out. What the…?” Jen gasps as she carefully runs her hands over the dress before reaching for the shoe box and looking inside.

Emilia’s smile turns mischievous. “Well… I think it’s time we talk to our husbands. If James can put in this kind of effort on a first date, then Ben and Lucas better step it up.”

Jen nods absently, still inspecting James’s gifts like she’s trying to calculate just how much damage the man did to his bank account. Then her eyes land on a small silk pouch tucked inside the garment bag with the dress.

“Wait… Is that…?”

A second later, she pulls out two small black velvet boxes with gold trim from the bag.

“No way.” She opens the velvet boxes. “Jewelry.”

She spins to look at me.

“Annelly, how did you manage this, you sexy little minx?”

I laugh, shaking my head.

“No, seriously.” She points at me. “Whatever kind of magic spell you used on that man, bottle it up and start selling it. You’ll be a millionaire by Christmas.”

Emilia only smiles before stepping back behind me, her fingers already reaching for my hair.

“No magic necessary. All that man needed was a woman who loved him enough to stand her ground… and loved herself enough not to settle.”

She smiles at me through the mirror.

“I’m proud to know that woman just happens to be my brave little cousin.”

I turn slightly and meet her gaze through the mirror. The tenderness in her eyes brings an unexpected sting to my own.

“I’m not brave, Emi. Definitely not braver than anyone else. Especially you.”

I think about everything she’s survived. All those years believing her husband, Creed, was missing and unable to tell anyone. Then the games the FBI played with her family. The abduction. The trauma that followed. Through all of it, she kept moving forward, not just for herself, but for Lucas, Alyssa, Mallory, and Baby Wyatt.

In my mind, Emilia has always been the brave one.

Judging by the way she looks at me, she couldn’t disagree more. The next thing I know, she’s pulling me into a tight hug.

“Annelly… I wish you could see yourself the way the rest of us see you.”

She pulls back just enough to smooth my bangs into place before gently cupping my cheek. The gesture is so familiar. So Emilia.

She’s been doing little things like that for as long as I can remember.

Ever since I was little and she was my older, much cooler cousin.

“You, sweet Nell, found the courage to leave the safety of this little town, to chase a dream the likes of which to me feels absolutely terrifying. I mean, the thought of moving to New York is scary enough, but standing up on a stage and performing in front of thousands of people… My God, Annelly… you are one of the bravest people I’ve ever known.”

Jen joins us then, picking up her makeup brush and getting ready to pick up from where she left off. She smiles down at me, nodding.

“I’m with Emi on this one. Especially after hearing what you did that day. How you put that bastard in the ground where he belonged. You, Annelly, are a powerhouse of strength and bravery. Next time I’m in trouble, forget Superman. I’m calling you.” 

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally FREE .

Just hit “Follow” on REAM to get early access without needing to subscribe. You’ll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

# Chapter 63

Annelly

Jen takes one final step back, makeup brush still in hand, tilting her head from one side to the other as she studies her work.

"Hmm."

My brow furrows. 

"What?"  

She ignores me. The glint in her eye tells me she's enjoying every second of this.

Emilia reaches around me, carefully lifting a loose curl before pinning it into place. 

"There."

Jen gives a single, approving nod.

"Yep. She's ready."

Before I can ask another question, they're already moving. Emilia heads for the dress waiting on the bed while Jen extends a hand toward me.

"Come on, my queen. Time to get you into your gown."

I laugh.

"When did you become so darn bossy?"

"Blame Ben. It took years of practice, but after nine years of marriage, I'm officially the boss of all things." She shrugs. "My advice to you is the same one I give him. Suck it up and deal with it. I am who I am."

Emilia snorts.

"Who you are is exactly why you're his perfect match. No other woman on this planet could put up with that man's prickly nature."

Jen flashes her an entirely unapologetic grin.

"Exactly. I remind him of that all the time. Frankly, the man doesn't appreciate me nearly enough."

Still laughing, I slip my hand into hers and let her pull me to my feet before leading me toward the bed where the dress waits.

Emilia slowly unzips the garment bag. For a moment, none of us says a word.

My gaze lands on the dress, and I forget to breathe.

It's somehow exactly the kind of dress I would have chosen for myself.

Simple.

Elegant.

Timeless.

The midnight-blue fabric catches the late afternoon light spilling through the bedroom window as Emilia lifts it from the hanger, soft and fluid with every movement. There are no elaborate beads or dramatic embellishments.

It doesn't need them.

The silhouette is clean and graceful, skimming the body before gently flaring below the knees. The neckline leaves just enough of my shoulders bare to feel feminine without ever crossing into flashy.

It's beautiful.

Quietly so.

Just like the man who chose it.

"I swear," Jen breathes. "That man has been secretly taking romance lessons from somebody."

Emilia smiles. 

"I doubt it. I mean... look who he spends all his time with."

Jen laughs.

"Fair point." She looks over at me, her grin softening. "Looks like he's just completely gone. That man is hopelessly in love with you, Nell."

Something inside my chest melts.

Without another word, they help me slip out of my robe before carefully guiding me into the dress. Emilia pulls the zipper closed while Jen smooths the fabric over my hips.

It fits perfectly. 

My heart stutters.

How did he know?

Emilia lets out a quiet breath.

"Oh... wow."

Jen nods, smoothing one last wrinkle from the skirt before stepping back.

"Wow doesn't even cover it." She shakes her head. "Fits like it was made for you." Her eyes drift back to my face before a mischievous grin spreads across hers. "Then again... I suppose James has a pretty unfair advantage when it comes to knowing every inch of your body."

My cheeks immediately flare.

"Jennifer..." Emilia gasps.

"What?" she asks innocently. "I'm just saying."

She folds her arms across her chest.

"So..." Her grin only grows. "Are the rumors true?"

I blink.

"What rumors?"

"Is he a god in bed?"

"Jennifer Ann Chelsey," Emilia scolds, nudging her shoulder. "That is absolutely none of your business."

Then she glances at me.

"Unless my baby cousin wants to brag a little." She winks.

Heat floods my face, and suddenly I'd rather be anywhere but here.

Maybe it's the silence. Maybe it's the embarrassment. Either way, before I know what I'm doing, the words are tumbling out of me.

"There's really nothing to tell. We haven't... he hasn't..."

I freeze. Realizing too late what I've just disclosed.

Jen's eyes grow so wide I swear they might pop right out of her head.

"Wait," she holds up a finger dramatically. "Hold on just one minute."

She slowly turns toward Emilia.

"Did she just say...?"

Emilia's smile softens almost instantly.

"You two are waiting."

It's a statement. And there's something about the way she says it that makes it sound far more romantic than it actually is.

I drop my gaze, suddenly unable to look at either of them.

Why is talking about this so hard? Heck, why do we need to talk about it at all? 

And yet, before I can stop myself, the words spill out anyway.

"Well... kind of. I've never..." My cheeks burn even hotter. "Never done 
that
. So he wanted to wait until we weren't hiding anymore. Until everything was over and I was safe."

A pause, a smile tugging at my lips as I remember all those intimate nights I begged him to take it further. Every single time, he'd let out the most tortured groan before stubbornly refusing.

"I think he wanted to make sure I was absolutely certain. Like he was afraid I'd someday look back on it and regret that my first time... well, our first time happened under those circumstances."

"Oh, Nell," Emilia pulls me into a tight hug. "Mark my words, he's the one."

When she pulls back, her eyes are glassy, which instantly brings a shimmer to my own.

"A man who loves you enough to wait until you're not only safe, but absolutely sure..." She gently shakes her head. "Nell... he's one of the good ones."

When I look over at Jen, who has been unusually quiet, she's smiling with tears in her eyes. When she meets my gaze, she shrugs casually.

"James Serrano... who knew?"

The three of us laugh because Jen's right.

Who would've guessed that beneath the beautiful, broody, impossible playboy everyone thought they knew was a man capable of loving this deeply. 

This completely.

Except...

Somehow, I think I always knew.

A moment later, Emilia disappears from view before returning with the two velvet boxes.

Inside rests a delicate diamond pendant suspended from a fine white-gold chain.

The matching earrings are just as understated.

Small.

Elegant.

Beautiful.

Perfect.

Emilia fastens the necklace while Jen carefully slips the earrings into place.

Neither woman says a word.

Neither do I.

Because somehow, this moment feels sacred. 

It isn't about the dress anymore. Or the jewelry. Or even the teasing. 

It feels like the passing of a baton.

Like these women I've known, loved, and admired my entire life are quietly preparing to send me into the future waiting for me.

The thought settles so deeply inside me that tears sting my eyes.

A second later, Jen gently turns me toward the full-length mirror behind me.

"Okay, take a look. Tell me what you think."

I don't know why I hesitate.

Maybe because, for the first time in my life, I don't just want to like the woman looking back at me... I want to be proud of her.

And what if I'm not? 

What if when I finally look... I still find that same scared girl? Someone who still feels like she isn't enough.

I take a deep breath. Exhale slowly.

Then finally...

I look.

At first, I don't recognize the woman staring back at me. Not because of the dress, the makeup, or the way my brown hair now falls around my face in soft curls.

No, the difference is in my eyes. In my shoulders. In the confident way I'm carrying myself.

The woman looking back at me is nothing like the girl who left for New York at eighteen. Nor is she the young woman who spent so many years trying to live someone else's story instead of writing her own.

No. 

The girl in that mirror... she isn't running anymore. She isn't waiting for the next disaster. She isn't wondering whether she belongs.

She simply...

Exists.

Comfortable in her own skin.

Confident in who she is.

Like she's finally ready to live the life she's fought so hard to claim.

Hope settles quietly inside my chest.

My life is still complicated. The future is still uncertain. James is still haunted by nightmares. Tyler still hasn't come home to us.

But somehow...

None of that changes what I feel in this moment.

Happy.

Loved.

Certain, not because I know what tomorrow holds, but because I finally know who I want to be when I get there.

A tear slips down my cheek before I even realize it's there.

Jen hands me a tissue, laughing softly.

"Absolutely no crying, missy," she scolds. "I worked way too hard on that makeup for you to ruin it now."

I laugh through the tears.

"Sorry."

She smiles.

"Don't apologize."

Emilia steps up beside me until we're both looking into the mirror together.

"You know what I see?" she asks quietly.

I shake my head.

"I see a woman who's finally starting to believe what the rest of us have always known."

I swallow hard.

"And what's that?"

She smiles.

"That she's amazing. That she's worthy of happiness. That she deserves the things she wants. And most of all... that she's already exactly who she's supposed to be."

I stare at my reflection one last time. 

For the first time... 

I think I finally see it.

❤️

 
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Chapter 64

Annelly

The quiet stretches between us for only a moment before the sound of the doorbell echoes through the house.

Jen claps her hands together.

“Well,” smiling, she heads toward the bedroom door. “Looks like Prince Charming sent his chauffeur.”

I laugh, quickly swiping at the tears beneath my eyes.

“Don’t even think about crying again,” Jen warns over her shoulder. “I’m serious. Or I’ll have to invoice James for my wasted efforts.”

The bedroom fills with soft laughter.

As Jen disappears downstairs, Emilia turns back toward me. For a long moment, she simply looks at me.

Then she closes the distance between us and wraps me in another hug.

“I’m so proud of you, Nell.”

My throat constricts with emotion.

“So proud of the woman you’ve become.”

I hug her a little tighter.

“Thank you.”

She pulls back, smiling as she smooths an imaginary wrinkle from my dress.

“Now come. It’s time.”

Her smile softens.

“Have fun. And whatever happens, don’t rush through tonight. Slow down and take it all in, because moments like this aren’t always guaranteed.”

She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice carries the quiet wisdom of someone who’s lived through the unimaginable.

“Take it from me. The past is the past. The future isn’t promised. But the now…” She smiles. “This today is all that really matters.”

She cups my cheek one last time.

“You’ve both fought too hard to let this moment pass you by.”

The lump in my throat grows, impossible to ignore.

“Okay.” I nod. “I will.”

“I know you will.”

She smiles.

“Now go.” Her eyes twinkle. “And let that sweet man spoil you rotten.”

I laugh and nod, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks.

Thank goodness for waterproof mascara.

Together, arm in arm, we make our way downstairs.

The moment I step into the foyer, Zeb’s mouth falls open.

He blinks once.

Twice.

Then slowly tips his head back toward the ceiling.

“Christ.”

I frown.

“What?”

He drags a hand down his face. “Our boy is in so much trouble.”

Jen laughs from somewhere behind him. “Told you.”

Zeb points dramatically toward me. “Seriously. Look at you. The man is fucked.”

Heat rushes into my cheeks.

“Guys…” I laugh nervously, shrugging. “It’s still just me.”

“You’re right.” He nods. “It is just you.” A grin spreads across his face. “Which is exactly why you’re perfect for him.”

He gestures toward me.

“And explains why he’s completely lost his mind planning this date.”

“What?” Jen perks up immediately, clearly sensing fresh ammunition she can use against one of the guys later. “You know what he’s got planned? Tell us. We’re completely in the dark here.”

When Zeb hesitates, she folds her arms across her chest.

“As your boss’s wife, it’s your job to keep me happy. You know Ben doesn’t like it when I’m upset.”

Zeb throws his head back and laughs.

“Nice try. Won’t get me with that guilt trip again.” He wags a finger at her, and judging by Jen’s grin, I get the feeling this isn’t the first time she’s tried this tactic.

“First, my boss has made one thing abundantly clear. Under no circumstances are the men on his team to fall victim to his wife’s shenanigans. According to the employee handbook, this includes tears, guilt trips, and threats of getting us fired if we don’t do as she says.”

While Jen’s smile turns into a frown, Emilia cackles. Apparently, neither of them knew Ben had actually written that directive into the Offset Tactical employee handbook.

“Second… James has sworn me to secrecy under penalty of death. Which is why all I’ll say is this: no sane human being puts this much pressure on themselves for a first date.”

He shrugs dramatically.

“Yet here we are. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he’s only doing it to put Ben and Lucas to shame.”

Emilia smiles.

Jen… not so much. She still looks personally offended that Ben apparently felt such a policy was necessary.

“Swear to God, I’ve spent the last two hours getting text message after text message that basically boils down to…” He clears his throat dramatically. “‘If anything goes wrong, Kingston, I will personally castrate you.’”

Jen snorts.

“He did not…” I say.

“I believe it,” Emilia says at the exact same time.

With another dramatic sigh, Zeb reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a folded midnight-blue silk blindfold that perfectly matches the color of my dress.

“Unfortunately, Captain Overbearing had one final instruction for me. Well, other than getting you safely to your destination.”

I stare at it, unable to stop smiling.

“Seriously?”

He gives me an apologetic smile.

“Deadly serious. Penalty of bodily harm, remember?”

The room erupts into laughter.

Still smiling, I step forward. Emilia takes the blindfold from him and carefully ties it into place.

“There. You’re all set.” I can hear her smile. “Zeb, the rest is up to you. Keep her safe for us.”

A hand settles gently at the small of my back.

“I’ve got her,” Zeb says quietly. “Promise.”

A moment later, Zeb helps me into the SUV before closing the door behind me.

As the SUV pulls away from my childhood home, I lean back against the seat.

Butterflies dance wildly inside my stomach. But for once, they aren’t born from fear.

They’re born from hope.

Because James is waiting for me, and for the first time in my life, the future doesn’t scare me.

The drive doesn’t last nearly as long as I expect. Maybe fifteen to twenty minutes. Maybe less.

It’s impossible to tell with the blindfold covering my eyes and every other sense working overtime to figure out where Zeb is taking me.

When the SUV finally slows to a stop, anticipation rushes through me.

“We’re here,” Zeb says softly.

My smile grows. I can’t help it.

He comes around to open my door before offering me his arm.

“Easy now.”

I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow and carefully step down onto solid ground.

The evening air brushes gently across my bare shoulders. It’s cool and comforting.

Instinctively, I pull in a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.

Then Zeb gently guides me forward.

“We’re coming to the curb. Go on and take a small step up for me.”

I do as instructed. A second later, the sound beneath my heels changes, cement giving way to tile.

An old, familiar scent wraps itself around me almost instantly.

Fresh coffee.

Cinnamon.

Baked bread.

The lingering sweetness of homemade pies.

I can’t help but smile.

The diner.

It has to be.

It’s the scent of my childhood. The scent of home. The scent of Mom and Dad.

My chest tightens unexpectedly.

Only…

Something isn’t right.

It’s unusually quiet. Far too quiet for this hour, when the dinner rush should be in full swing. There should be dishes clattering. Laughter and conversation filling every corner of the space. Mom calling orders through the pass-through window.

Instead, I’m greeted by nothing but silence.

But as we step farther inside, I sense something else. A quiet anticipation hanging in the air, like dozens of people are holding their breath all at once.

I can’t explain it.

But somehow…

I know we’re not alone, and it only makes my smile grow even wider.

We take a few more slow steps before Zeb comes to a stop.

He lets out a dramatic sigh.

“Well…” His voice carries that familiar mixture of humor and affection. “I’m sorry to tell you this, honey, but the best part of your evening has come to an end.”

I laugh.

“The best part?”

“My company, obviously.”

Another beat.

“Unfortunately, Captain Overbearing left me with very specific instructions.”

He gently slips my hand from around his arm.

“And now…” His voice softens. “I have to hand you over to this brute.”

A warm hand closes around mine, and everything inside me stills.

I don’t need my eyes. I’d know his touch anywhere.

Strong.

Gentle.

Home.

My fingers instinctively curl around his, and every ounce of nervous energy simply disappears.

A quiet breath escapes him. Then, softly, almost reverently…

“Hi, Snowflake.”

I can’t help but smile, tears pooling behind my blindfold at the nickname I’ve grown to love.

“Hi.”

His thumb brushes slowly across the back of my hand.

“I…” He lets out the quietest laugh. “You look…”

He exhales again.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

Heat blooms through every inch of me.

“Thank you for the dress. And the team of wannabe make-up artists you sent to pamper me.”

He laughs, and I swear I could spend a lifetime listening to that sound.

“You’re welcome.” His voice is barely above a whisper, carrying a quiet wonder I haven’t heard since the night I told him I loved him for the first time.

My heart forgets how to beat.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“For what exactly?” I tease. “You’ve been awfully mysterious so far.”

He chuckles.

“Are you ready for the best first date either of us has ever had?”

I laugh softly.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

He steps closer, one hand still holding mine as the other gently comes up to cup my cheek.

Then he leans down, and before I feel it coming, his lips find mine.

Soft.

Patient.

Certain.

The kind of kiss that makes forever suddenly feel possible.

And somehow…

I get the feeling that the best part of my life is only just beginning.

❤️

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# Chapter 65

James

Zeb: 
On our way.

Three words.

That's all his text said, and somehow those three little words have turned the restless energy beneath my skin into something damn near unbearable.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and look around the room again.

The table is set. Candles lit. Everything is exactly where it's supposed to be.

My gaze drifts toward the back corner of the room, partially hidden from view. Toward the surprise waiting there for her.

Silent.

Patient.

Like we've got all the time in the world.

I hope that's true.

I swallow hard before turning away.

Maybe I should check with the kitchen again. Make sure everything is set.

Jesus Christ.

I drag both hands down my face.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I'm James Serrano. 

I've spent most of my life stepping into situations where one wrong move could get me killed. I've stared down the barrel of a gun more times than I can count without breaking so much as a sweat. 

Yet somehow, waiting for this woman to walk through that door feels like the most vulnerable thing I've ever done.

Because what if she changes her mind?

What if she realizes this is too much?

That I'm too much?

That last thought lands hard enough to stop me in my tracks.

Because fuck knows I haven't exactly shown her the best version of myself these past two weeks.

Nightmares. Mood swings. The paralyzing anxiety over my brother. All the shit inside my head I'm still trying to figure out how to live with without letting it spill onto everyone around me.

As beautiful as she is, she could have anyone else in this world. Certainly someone easier to love than me. Someone who doesn't wake up in the middle of the night needing to be convinced the people he loves aren't dead. Someone who knows how to love her without smothering her beneath the weight of his fears.

But back in that hospital room, after I'd laid out every reason she should walk away, she chose me anyway. And every day since, she keeps choosing me.

That should be enough.

Instead, some fucked-up part of me is still waiting for the day she wakes up and realizes she could do so much better than a man like me.

The trouble is, she's woven herself so deeply into every part of who I am that sometimes I can't tell where I end and she begins.

She's the first person I look for when I wake up. The last person I need to see, to touch, before I can close my eyes at night.

She's become my everything.

And somehow, we've never really talked about what happens next.

We've been too busy surviving. Too busy making it through one nightmare, one surgery, one crisis at a time to stop and ask what our lives are supposed to look like when the aftermath of everything we've been through no longer takes so much out of us.

Questions like where do we go from here?

What happens when the dust finally settles and we're forced to decide what we want our lives to look like?

And most important of all, what happens if the future she wants isn't the same as the one I've started imagining for us?

A year ago, my greatest fear would've been losing the life Tyler and I fought so hard to build. 

Now there's something I'm even more afraid to lose.

The future I want with her.

Especially after the past two weeks.

No matter how hard or ugly things got, Annelly was always there. She never pushed me to talk. Never demanded I be okay. Never tried to fill the silence with empty reassurances that everything would somehow turn out fine.

She just stayed beside me in the quiet. Reached for my hand when she sensed me slipping too far inside my own head. Reminded me, without ever saying a word, that I wasn't alone.

And Christ...

The more she gives me, the tighter I find myself holding on. And I'm terrified that eventually I'll drown her beneath the weight of everything I need from her. 

But I'm just as terrified of what might happen if I loosen my grip. 

Because some days, she's the only light bright enough to reach me through the darkness.

God...

I need her.

And I don't just mean now. I think some part of me has always known I needed her.

Maybe even from the moment we first met.

My thoughts drift back to last summer.

Lucas's house.

I'd been there to help Lucas keep his family safe. Annelly was home for the summer, helping Emilia keep the two restless little girls entertained after they'd spent far too long trapped on the property, cut off from the outside world.

Somehow, that turned into me attending tea parties where I wasn't allowed to leave until every stuffed animal had been served. Then, lazy afternoons pushing little girls on the swing set while their laughter and constant chatter carried across the backyard like a vibrant new language I was suddenly eager to learn.

And Annelly...

She was always there.

Smiling.

Laughing.

Somehow fitting beside me in a life I never realized I wanted until I caught myself imagining what it would feel like if it were mine.

The domestic simplicity of it scared the shit out of me.

So I did what I always do when feelings that could hurt me get too real.

I put her in a box.

Friend.

Nothing more.

I told myself if I kept the lines clear enough, eventually whatever I felt around her would disappear. 

And for a while, I almost convinced myself it had worked.

Until that night with Briana. The night Annelly walked in and saw us together.

I'll never forget the look on her face.

She tried to hide it. Pretended it didn't matter. 

But I saw the pain anyway.

And standing there with another woman, looking into Annelly's eyes, I felt like I'd betrayed her.

Like I'd cheated.

The realization fucking stunned me. 

Because there was only one reason being with someone else could feel like I was betraying her. 

Somewhere along the way, I'd fallen for her. 

I just hadn't been brave enough to admit it to myself. 

So I did what I'd spent my entire life doing whenever something mattered enough to destroy me.

I destroyed it first.

Ended our friendship. Pushed her away. Convinced myself it was better for us both.

But even then... 

Even as I forced myself to watch her walk out of my life, I knew I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.

It's why ever since she found her way back to me, I've been trying to become the man I should've been brave enough to be back then. 

Maybe that's what tonight really is. Not some elaborate first date. Not candles or flowers or surprises.

No.

Tonight is another chance.

A chance to prove that this time, when the fear comes, I won't run. I won't push her away. I won't destroy the best thing that's ever happened to me just because I'm terrified of losing it.

This time, I'm here to stay. 

For as long as she'll have me.

I release a slow breath and force myself back to the present.

My gaze travels around the room again, and for the first time since Zeb's text came through, I actually take in everything Rosie managed to pull together.

The private dining room barely looks like the same space.

The dark wood table in the center is set for two, elegant white plates resting on shimmering red placemats. Satin napkins are held by polished silver rings, surrounded by flickering candles and scattered rose petals.

Fairy lights stretch across the walls, their soft glow transforming the room into something that belongs in one of those overpriced magazines people leave sitting on coffee tables.

It's perfect.

More than perfect.

I glance down, smoothing my hands over the gray suit I'm wearing.

One phone call to my old stylist in New York was all it took. The minute he heard I'd fallen in love and was desperate to impress the woman of my dreams, my request for a dress somehow turned into shoes, jewelry, and a custom suit I absolutely did not ask for.

The bastard insisted.

Said if I had any hope of landing a woman like Annelly, the least I could do was give up the lumberjack look, at least for one night.

Personally, I think Annelly likes me just fine in jeans and boots. But even I can admit the suit fits the kind of first date I wanted to give her. 

The kind of night we both deserve.

One untouched by everything we've survived.

One where all she has to do is be happy.

Almost against my will, my gaze drifts back toward the partitioned-off section in the back of the room, and just like that, the nerves return. 

Because hidden behind that partition is the part of tonight I'm most afraid of. The part where we finally stop avoiding the questions about our future.

New York.

Juilliard.

Broadway.

The life Annelly spent years building before everything fell apart.

I don't know if she still wants it.

I don't know if Ruby Creek is somewhere she intends to stay or simply the place she needed to come home to long enough to heal.

The only thing I know for sure is that I refuse to become another person who claims to love her while asking her to give up pieces of herself.

So before tonight ends, I need to know what she wants.

Even if her answer changes everything.

Even if the future she wants looks nothing like the one I've started imagining for us.

My chest tightens as I force myself to look away from the surprise hidden from view.

Because somewhere along the way, tonight stopped being only about giving Annelly the perfect first date.

No.

Tonight is about finally finding out whether we're walking toward the same future.

And if we're not...

Then I'll have to figure out what I'm willing to leave behind to keep walking beside her.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
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REAM
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Chapter 66

James

Before I can think any further about what tonight might cost me, the door to the private dining room opens.

Rosie steps inside.

“They’re here.”

Every muscle in my body goes tight.

“Already?”

She laughs softly. “Considering how anxious you’ve been, I’m surprised you didn’t sense them pulling into the parking lot.”

She’s here.

Christ.

I glance toward the door, my heart pounding so fucking hard I wouldn’t be surprised if Rosie can hear it.

“The place is packed. Nearly standing room. Looks like half the town suddenly decided tonight was the perfect night to eat at my diner.”

I look at her.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Just a coincidence, I’m sure.”

Her mouth twitches, telling me she must’ve let the details slip to just the right people. Which, in a town like Ruby Creek, is basically the equivalent of putting our business on a billboard in the middle of Main Street.

At the look on my face, she waves me off.

“Oh, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve got everyone under strict orders to keep quiet until we’ve delivered her safely to you. No one is going to ruin your surprise.”

Despite everything, a laugh escapes me.

Rosie smiles as she crosses the room, then reaches up and straightens the lapels of my suit jacket.

“You ready for this?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead, I just nod like an awestruck idiot.

Her expression softens. She rests a hand on my arm before gently touching my cheek.

“I’m proud of you, James.”

The words reach someplace deep inside me I never realized needed to hear them. A place that, until this moment, I’m not sure anyone has ever touched.

“I’ve watched the way you love my daughter. I’ve watched you fight for her. For you both. And I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to watching the two of you build whatever comes next.”

Her eyes shimmer as something tightens painfully inside my chest.

“But mostly…” Her smile trembles. “I just wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For making my little girl happy.”

My chest squeezes.

“Happier than I’ve ever seen her.”

I can’t speak. Can’t fucking breathe around the ache suddenly lodged in my throat.

I’ve spent my entire life believing relationships were transactional. Believing I had to earn my place in people’s lives. Protect them. Provide for them. Make myself useful enough that maybe they’d have a reason to keep me around instead of eventually leaving me.

But Rosie isn’t looking at me like I need to earn anything. She’s looking at me with affection. Pride. Acceptance.

Like I already belong here.

With Annelly.

With both of them.

Rosie starts to step away, but before I can think better of it, I pull her into my arms.

She freezes for half a second, but then her arms close around me, and something inside me breaks. Because somewhere along the way, loving Annelly didn’t just give me the woman I want to build a future with.

It gave me a family.

A place to belong.

And, apparently, a mom I never realized I needed.

Rosie gives me one last smile before slipping out of my arms.

“You should probably get out there.”

I nod, still not trusting myself to speak, then follow her into the hallway.

The entire diner has gone silent.

Rosie wasn’t kidding. There’s got to be damn near a hundred people in this place, packed into booths, crowded around tables, and even standing along the walls. They’re all wearing beaming smiles and doing a terrible job of pretending they didn’t come here tonight just to witness this moment.

I barely notice them.

My eyes lock on the front door and refuse to look anywhere else.

A minute later, it finally opens.

Zeb steps inside.

And suddenly, there she is.

My heart stops.

For one suspended second, I forget how to breathe. How to move. How to do anything but stand there and stare at her.

Then everything else disappears.

The people surrounding us. The romantic dinner waiting in the other room. Hell, even the questions I need answered before the night ends.

I forget everything but her.

Annelly.

Her arm is linked through Zeb’s, the blindfold covering her eyes as he carefully guides her forward.

And Christ…

She’s beautiful.

The dress fits her exactly the way I’d imagined it would. Her hair falls around her shoulders in soft brown curls, and even from across the room, I can see the smile slowly spreading across her face.

But it isn’t the dress that steals the air from my lungs.

It’s her.

The quiet confidence in the way she carries herself. The softness she somehow managed to hold on to despite everything she’s survived. The strength it took to fight her way through all of it and still stand here, trusting me with her heart.

And somehow, that’s the part that nearly brings me to my knees.

The woman I tried so fucking hard not to love. The woman I almost lost because I was too much of a coward to admit I already did.

And now here she is.

Walking toward me.

Still choosing me.

For days now, all I’ve been thinking about is everything I might have to give up if the life she wants takes her away from Ruby Creek.

My home.

My job.

Living close enough to be there for my brother every day.

The life Tyler and I fought so hard to build.

All the things I once believed I couldn’t live without.

But as I watch her walking toward me, I realize none of it feels like a sacrifice. Because for the first time in my life, I finally understand what home really is.

It isn’t the house waiting to be rebuilt.

It isn’t Ruby Creek.

It isn’t even the life I’ve spent years fighting to protect.

Home is the place where I can finally breathe. The place I feel safe enough to close my eyes and simply exist. The place where I know, without question, that I belong.

That I am loved.

And somehow, somewhere along the way…

She became all of those things.

She became my home.

The realization hits me so fucking hard I can’t hold back the tears that slip quietly from the corners of my eyes. Because I’ve spent my entire life trying to build this feeling out of things I could control.

A house.

Money.

Locks on every door and enough security systems to convince myself nothing could ever be taken from me again.

I thought if I could make the life Tyler and I built stable enough, permanent enough, eventually I’d finally feel safe.

But now, watching her walk toward me, I finally understand.

I wasn’t looking for a place.

I was looking for her.

Someone who loves me completely. Unconditionally.

Someone who makes me believe, for the first time in my life, that the future isn’t something I have to fear.

It’s something I can’t fucking wait to live.

Zeb guides her deeper into the diner while everyone around us remains impossibly silent. No small feat, given how many of our small-town neighbors are here watching this play out.

I hear him say something. Annelly laughs. But I can’t make out a single word over the pounding of my heart.

Then they’re standing in front of me.

Zeb slips her hand from around his arm and places it in mine.

Everything stops.

The fear. The uncertainty.

My fingers close around hers.

And suddenly, I know.

If she wants New York, I’ll go. If she wants Ruby Creek, I’ll stay. If she wants some life neither of us has imagined yet, I’ll dig in and build it with her.

No question.

No doubt.

Because whatever future Annelly chooses tonight, I’ve already chosen mine.

Her.

No matter where it takes us.

No matter what I have to leave behind.

As long as I get to walk through this life beside her, I already have everything I need.

❤️

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# Chapter 67

James

The second my lips meet hers, the rest of the world disappears.

The crowded diner. The dozens of people pretending not to watch us. Even the questions lingering in the back of my mind, waiting to be answered.

None of it exists anymore.

Here right now, there's only her. 

The soft warmth of her mouth beneath mine. The gentle sigh that slips past her lips as she melts into the kiss without even the slightest hesitation. Like trusting me has become as natural to her as breathing.

God... I've imagined kissing her like this more times than I can count. Not stolen moments between nightmares. Not desperate reassurances after another close call.

Just... this.

A kiss that doesn't have to compete with fear or uncertainty. One that belongs entirely to us.

Slowly, I force myself to pull back, my hands lingering against her cheeks as my thumbs brush softly across her skin.

For a long moment, I simply stare at her. At the blindfold still covering those beautiful green eyes. At the smile that's trying to steal what little composure I have left.

Then her brow furrows ever so slightly.

"You're shaking."

A startled laugh escapes me. "Holy shit..." I shake my head, letting out another quiet laugh. "I guess I am."

"You are," she confirms, amusement dancing through her voice. 

I glance down at my hands still cradling her face. "I've gone into armed standoffs with steadier hands than this." I laugh, shaking my head. "Guess that settles it."

"Settles what?"

"You're officially the most terrifying thing I've ever faced."

She giggles, the sound light and carefree, and it settles something deep inside me.

"What happened to the fearless OTS operator everyone's afraid of?" she asks softly.

"Oh, he's around." I grin. "He's just taking a little break to show his girlfriend how much he loves her."

Her smile softens.

"So is it me? Am I making you nervous?"

I let out a slow breath, meeting the blindfold still covering her eyes. "No. Making everything perfect for you. That's what's got me nervous."

Like she somehow knows exactly what I need, she doesn't say a word. Instead, her hands slip over mine, giving them the gentlest squeeze.

Just like that... the shaking starts to fade.

I lace our fingers together in front of us and smile.

"Come on, Snowflake." Carefully, I guide her toward the private dining room. "Time to really put your boyfriend on the spot."

God, I hope she likes it.

The moment we step inside, I quietly push the door shut behind us. The gentle click echoes through the space before a comfortable silence settles around us.

For a second, neither of us moves. 

My gaze drifts over her again, taking in the beautiful dress, the matching blindfold still covering those incredible green eyes, and the smile she hasn't stopped wearing since I kissed her out in the hall.

That familiar flutter returns to my chest. Because my God, is this woman beautiful. And I don't mean just because of the dress, or the hair, or the makeup. 

She's beautiful because she's her. 

Because she somehow makes every room she walks into that much brighter simply by being in it. 

Because she's kind. 

Brave. 

Stubborn enough to challenge me when I need it most.

Smart enough never to settle for less than she deserves. 

Strong enough to survive things that should've broken her.

And somehow this incredible woman loves me.

Me!

Emotion burns behind my eyes as I reach for the blindfold tied behind her head. Because more than my next breath, I need to see the eyes that completely own my heart.

"I'm taking this off, but don't peek just yet."

A tiny smile curls at her lips. "Aww... why not? Not even one little peek?"

"Nope." A quiet laugh slips free as I loosen the knot and carefully slide the blindfold away.

True to her word, she keeps her eyes closed. Trusting me. Believing in me. The realization lodges somewhere deep inside my chest, and I make a silent vow to never take that trust for granted.

Quietly, I tell her, "Three months ago today... the first time I held you in my arms... it happened in this room."

My fingers find hers again.

"I've thought about that day more times than I can count. Trying to make sense of everything it gave me... and everything it took from you." A bittersweet smile tugs at my lips. "Because as awful as parts of that day were, it was also the day I finally stopped lying to myself."

The confession hangs between us.

"It was the day I realized I didn't just care about you, Annelly. I loved you. I just wasn't brave enough to admit it to myself yet."

The words leave my mouth so simply. So matter-of-factly. Yet somehow they still feel like the biggest truth I've ever spoken.

I draw in a slow breath, trying to steady the emotion tightening my throat.

"For me, holding you that day was one of the best moments of my life. But for you... it meant reliving one of the worst."

Her smile fades, and every instinct inside me screams to stop. To spare her from having to revisit any of this. But I can't. Because I'm not only doing this for us. I'm doing it for her. I refuse to let one of her worst memories remain one of the defining moments of our relationship.

"Every time I've thought about this room since then... that's all I could see." I close my eyes for the briefest second. "That bastard putting his hands on you."

My voice catches, forcing me to clear my throat before I continue.

"Then I'd see the fear in your eyes. The panic. The way you just fell apart."

The helplessness of that moment crashes over me all over again. That was when I realized the damage had already been done to her, long before Anthony ever touched her. 

I drag a hand down my face, trying to push the memory away.

"You terrified me that day. Not because of anything you did, but because of what had so clearly been done to you. I remember standing there wishing I could take every second of that pain... every second of that fear... away from you. And then realizing I couldn't."

That last sentence barely makes it out.

I exhale slowly.

"Now that we're back in Ruby Creek, I can't stand the thought of that being the memory we carry with us every time we look at this room. So I made us both a promise."

I step a little closer, brushing my thumb across the back of her hand.

"I won't let Anthony Zapalla, or Victor Bastille, or anyone else for that matter, have the final say over what this room means to us."

A quiet smile finally finds its way back onto my face, my voice softening into something almost reverent.

"So tonight, I'm here to reclaim this room for us." My fingers quietly squeeze hers. "Because I've loved you for a long time, Annelly. Long before I was brave enough to admit it. Long before either of us was truly ready for what came with those feelings. And now here we are, finally at a place where my head is firmly out of my own ass."

A soft, watery laugh escapes her, and I can't help but laugh with her.

"Now I finally get to love you the way I should have from the start. Tonight we finally get our chance to begin." 

I lean forward, pressing a lingering kiss against her forehead, closing my eyes for just a second as I breathe her in. Then I pull back, my heart pounding so hard I'm convinced she has to be able to hear it.

"Okay, Snowflake..."

I pause, smiling down at her.

"Open your eyes."

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

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"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 68

James

I step aside, still holding her hand.

For one suspended heartbeat, she doesn’t move.

Then her eyelids slowly flutter open.

And suddenly… I’m mesmerized.

By the way her emerald eyes widen. By the tiny gasp that catches in her throat. By the hand that flies instinctively to her mouth as she slowly turns in a circle, taking everything in.

Candlelight dances softly across her skin as I drink in every slow blink, every shaky breath, every tear shimmering in those beautiful green eyes.

This…

This is the moment I’ve spent weeks imagining.

Her.

Standing here.

Looking at all of it with the same quiet wonder I’d hoped I could give her.

And God… watching her is even more beautiful than I’d imagined.

“Oh wow, James,” she whispers so softly I almost don’t hear it.

A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it, because it was all worth it. All the sleepless nights obsessing over every detail. Every frantic phone call after realizing I’d forgotten something else. All the ridiculous worrying over things that don’t seem nearly as important anymore.

She slowly turns back toward me, her eyes still glistening.

“You… you did all this?”

I let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of my neck.

“Well… not all of it. Not exactly.”

Her brow furrows.

“I had a little help.” I smile at her. “A lot of help, actually.”

I shake my head with a soft chuckle. Heat creeps up the back of my neck, reaching all the way to my ears.

“Rosie. Emilia. Jen. I mostly just told them how I wanted to make you feel tonight.”

My gaze settles back on hers.

“And somehow… they brought it to life.”

She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she closes the distance between us in one stride before throwing her arms around my neck so tightly it almost steals the air from my lungs.

I don’t hesitate.

My arms wrap around her, holding her against me as that familiar feeling of rightness I’ve become addicted to settles deep inside my chest.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice breaking against me. “No one… no one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

My eyes close, needing a second to let this feeling sink in. To hold onto it. To memorize it. To let it become a part of me so I never forget that this is what I want to live for. For the rest of my life. With her.

Almost instinctively, I draw her closer, resting my cheek against the top of her head as I breathe her in.

“It’s what you deserve,” I murmur. “What you will always deserve.”

It’s what I’ll spend the rest of my life giving her. Because standing here with the woman I love in my arms, I finally understand why tonight mattered so much to me.

It was never just about impressing her with the perfect first date.

Or making up for the mistakes I’ve spent months carrying around like lead weights chained to my chest.

It wasn’t even about quieting the guilt that still finds me when I look back on everything I got wrong.

No.

This was always about something so much bigger than that.

It was about giving her the love story she deserves. The one she should have had from the start. The one I’m finally ready to give her.

I kiss the top of her head, a smile tugging at my lips as I feel her squeeze me a little tighter. Starting today… I’ll spend the rest of my life loving this woman with my every breath.

I don’t know how long we stand there. Maybe seconds. Maybe minutes. All I know is that neither of us seems in any hurry to let go.

Eventually, she leans back just enough to look up at me. Her eyes are still glistening. Color still warms her cheeks. The smile on her face is so impossibly beautiful it steals the little breath she hadn’t already taken with that hug.

I brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear, my fingertips lingering against her skin a moment longer than they need to.

“You shouldn’t keep looking at me like that,” I murmur, warmth spreading across my face.

A soft laugh escapes her.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m some kind of Prince Charming…” I let out a quiet huff of disbelief. “Which we both know I’m not.”

She smiles even wider.

“You are.”

“Snowflake…”

“No.” She gives a small shake of her head, never taking her eyes off mine. “Listen to me. You are.”

Then her voice softens to little more than a whisper.

“At least to me.”

Before I can think of a response, her hand slides gently up my chest to my neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck.

Then she rises on her toes, pulls me toward her, and kisses me.

Slow. Tender. But also laced with a hunger I haven’t felt from her since the cabin, since before Tyler was taken and everything in our world went to shit.

I lose myself in it almost immediately.

Her lips part against mine, and the soft sound she makes, half sigh, half something hungrier, shreds every ounce of restraint I’ve spent months building.

My hand splays against the small of her back, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us.

She comes willingly, arching into me like she’s been starving for this exact thing just as long as I have.

I kiss her deeper.

Harder.

Tasting her like I’m trying to brand the feel of her into memory—the slick heat of her mouth, the way her breath stutters when my fingers flex against her spine, the needy little noise she makes against my lips when I finally let myself take instead of just receiving what she offers.

God, I’ve missed this. Missed her . Especially the woman I’ve been so terrified of hurting that I didn’t even consider she might be just as desperate to lose herself in me as I am in her.

Her fingers fist tighter in my hair, no longer gentle but more insistent now—a silent plea for more—and my whole body responds like this is what it’s been waiting for all along. Her permission.

Heat floods through me, fast and reckless, pooling low in my groin until my hands are shaking with overwhelming need.

She melts into me, only making the ache inside me worse.

I swear I feel her everywhere. It feels like the same desperate hunger inside me is raging inside her too.

My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. My breath ragged where it mixes with hers. And for one blinding, weightless moment I let myself imagine it. All of it. The way she’d feel underneath me, over me, wrapped around me. Every sinful, erotic thought I’ve kept locked down since the night she first came to stay with Tyler and me.

The room disappears. The dinner. The reason we’re even standing here. Even the constant throb that’s lived in my gut since the night I nearly died.

All I can think about is the feel of her mouth, her hands, the soft sounds she keeps making that are quickly unraveling whatever’s left of my self-control.

Which is exactly why, in that dizzying, desperate moment, some starved, single-minded part of me decides I have to feel her against me. Her legs wrapped tightly around my hips, just like I’ve pictured more times than I’ll ever admit out loud.

And just as I go to lift her… that’s when the pain steals my breath. Sharp. Agonizing. Like a vicious knife twisting straight through my gut.

Fuck…

I groan against her mouth, the sound half agony, half frustration, and force myself—with everything I have left—to pull back.

She blinks up at me, half dazed, lips swollen and parted, pupils blown wide, and it takes her a second before concern chases the haze out of her eyes.

“James?”

I let out a broken laugh, pressing my forehead to hers, trying to remember how lungs work, how blood is supposed to circulate anywhere other than one very specific, very insistent place.

“You…” I barely manage, voice wrecked. “You’re making it very difficult to remember that my doctors were pretty clear about what we’re not supposed to be doing yet.”

She huffs a small laugh, but I can feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips where my hand still rests against her neck. Mine isn’t any better, thundering hard enough I’m half convinced she can hear it too.

And even now, aching, wound impossibly tight, and painfully aware of exactly how much I want her—not just romantically, but with every starved, instinctive part of me—something steadier claws its way back to the surface.

The part that has always belonged only to her.

The part that’s always believed that when it comes to her, need shouldn’t make the decisions that love is supposed to make.

Because as much as I want her—in every way a man can want a woman—I refuse to let this be how it happens.

Some rushed, desperate thing.

No.

For her, this isn’t nearly good enough.

I refuse to let the memory of our first time together begin like this.

When that moment comes—and God, I hope it’s soon—it’s going to be slow. Tender. Something I pour every ounce of what I feel for her into, instead of one reckless moment driven by lust.

Because she deserves better than reckless.

Hell, she deserves everything .

A quiet laugh escapes me, and I shake my head.

“I think maybe we should both take a step back, maybe stop kissing for a little while.”

She grins, her cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of pink as her gaze instinctively drops to my very obvious erection.

Watching her notice nearly buckles my knees, and I barely manage to hold back my groan.

“Yeah… maybe you’re right.”

Thankfully, the words have barely left her mouth when a soft knock sounds at the door.

I let out a soft laugh.

“Saved by dinner,” I murmur, pressing a quick kiss against her lips before leading her to the table.

A moment later, the door opens just enough for Wendy to step inside, carrying a heavy tray carefully in her hands. Her eyes sweep across the room before landing on us, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

I pull Annelly’s chair out for her before taking my own seat across from her.

“Wow, that smells amazing,” Annelly says as Wendy sets our first course on the table.

“It should,” Wendy teases. “James had Rosie come up with a menu just for tonight. You should have seen him. He was absolutely relentless. Like he couldn’t rest until everything was perfect.”

“Hey,” I protest, earning a quiet laugh from both of them. “I wasn’t that bad.”

Was I?

Wendy and Annelly just laugh.

Once everything is arranged, Wendy slips out of the room, leaving us alone again.

Annelly lets her gaze drift around the room once more, her eyes lingering on the candles, the flowers, the fairy lights woven through the rafters before settling back on me.

“I still can’t believe you did all this.”

I glance around the room myself.

A few hours ago, I’d been terrified something would go wrong. That I’d forget something. Miss something. That somehow it wouldn’t be enough.

But now…

None of that seems to matter anymore.

She’s smiling.

She’s happy.

And somewhere between watching her eyes light up and kissing me like she’d been waiting for me just as long as I’d been waiting for her, I realized none of this had ever been about pulling off the perfect first date.

It was simply about her.

About making her feel cherished.

About making her feel loved.

A smile tugs at my lips.

“Believe it, Snowflake…” I hold her gaze. “Because this is only the beginning.”

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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