Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
Inside, chaos erupts—screams, shots, the stink of cheap whiskey and fear. Frankie’s men scramble. One charges at me, knife out. I dodge, slam him down, pistol to his gut. Pull the trigger. No hesitation.
Another tries to run. Toon catches him outside, drops him with a single shot.
Frankie tries to talk, but I don’t care. “We can make a deal—”
“No,” I say. “You don’t get to talk. You want her life? I want yours.” I raise my gun, aim for center mass. Pull the trigger. He drops.
We torch the place. Every dirty dollar, every lie, every memory. Gone.
When we roll home, I’m blood and smoke and adrenaline. Cambria’s waiting, hands shaking. She runs to me. I catch her.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to.
She knows what I had to do. I know she’s worth it.
And as I hold her, my arms wrapped around everything I thought I’d never have, I make another promise:
She’ll carry my name. She’ll have my loyalty. And nothing—no man, no war, no ghost—will ever touch her again.
Not while I’m breathing. Not in this life or any other.
Because she’s home. And I’m never letting her go.
THIRTEEN
CAMBRIA
My world has been flipped upside down since the day I was born … it might finally be right.
The minute Little Foot rides into the driveway, I feel like I can finally breathe.
For a whole week, I’ve lived with this ache in my chest, something like hope, but sharper, meaner. Every day I’ve pretended to go about my business—folding laundry, wiping down counters, sketching in the sun—but the truth is, I’ve been holding my breath.
Waiting.
Hoping the world wouldn’t fall apart again. That I wouldn’t lose him to the violence that always seems to catch up to people like us.
But now, the rumble of his bike drowns out every doubt. I see him before he even kills the engine, his face streaked with dirt, blood crusting along his collar, his cut torn on one side. There’s a wild, raw exhaustion about him, but also something new. His eyes meet mine and I see it there, finality. The sense of something ended, for real this time. Closure I never thought I’d get.
He’s here.
Alive.
And something in his eyes tells me it’s over.
I don’t wait for him to come to me. I bolt from the porch, the screen door banging behind me, my bare feet slapping the cracked pavement of the drive. There’s a wild freedom in that movement—no caution, no shame. Just a reckless need to reach him, to touch him, to make sure he’s real and not just another trick my frightened mind is playing on me.
He’s barely off the bike when I reach him. I launch myself into his arms, every bit of weight and fear and relief crashing into his solid chest. He catches me, as always, without hesitation. His arms come around me, strong and steady. He smells like gun oil and sweat and something familiar I don’t have a word for—safety, maybe. Home.
He buries his face in my hair, breathing deep, his whole body shuddering once like he’s letting something go.
“It’s done,” he whispers against my ear, voice rough with exhaustion and something close to awe. “Frankie’s gone.”
Gone.
Just like that.
The man who haunted my nightmares, the one I never thought I’d outrun. It doesn’t feel real. The world feels too quiet. I want to collapse or scream or laugh but all I do is hold him tighter, as if letting go would unravel everything. I squeeze my eyes shut, memorizing the way his heart beats beneath my palm.
We move inside his trailer, side by side, his hand tight around mine. I check him over, I see he is scratched up, but not injured. Relief crashes through me, leaving my knees weak.
His knuckles are split and raw, blood caked into the creases. I grab a clean washcloth, run it under warm water, and press it gently to his hand. He doesn’t wince. Just watches me with an intensity that’s almost frightening. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but I see something deeper there—deeper than lust, deeper than relief. It’s devotion. The kind of devotion that demands to be believed.
“You didn’t have to do it,” I say softly, wiping the blood away, careful not to hurt him. “You didn’t owe me that.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re wrong. I owe you everything. For a lifetime. You made me see what kind of man I want to be.”
I pause, cloth stilled on his skin. “I’m no one’s redemption plan.”
He leans closer, the air between us electric. “You’re mine.”
My chest tightens, hope and fear tangling together. I look up at him, this man who walked into my wreckage brazen with a plan and made my fight his fight.
For a long time, I thought I was broken beyond repair. That no one could touch me without falling into my ruin. But Drew, he just waded in, stubborn and gentle, and made a home for both of us in the wreckage.