Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Salem laughs again, smaller this time. “I don’t really… do much. Money’s always tight. Time’s always tight. If I’m not working, I’m sleeping. If I’m not sleeping, I’m worrying.”
My stomach twists. Because that isn’t living. That’s just… surviving in a different kind of cage. And I hate cages.
I look out at the creek, then back at her. “Okay,” I say.
Salem blinks. “Okay what?”
“I’m making a list,” I tell her.
Her eyes narrow. “A list?”
“Yeah,” I say, like it’s obvious. “Things we can do while we’re here. Lowkey. Safe. But… real.”
Salem stares at me like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to want that. “We’re supposed to be hiding,” she says.
“We are,” I agree. “But hiding doesn’t have to mean disappearing. It can mean… living quietly. Breathing. Relearning what normal is.”
She studies me. Then she says, wary but curious, “What’s on the list?”
I grin, slow and deliberate. “First item: teach you how to make coffee that doesn’t taste like regret.”
Salem snorts. “That’s not fun.”
“It’s necessary.”
She shakes her head, amusement in her eyes now. “Okay. What else?”
“Second,” I say, “creek again. But with snacks.”
Salem’s smile grows. “Okay.”
“Third,” I add, “find a skate spot nearby. Something small. Something safe.”
Her lips part slightly. She tries to hide how much she wants that. And she fails miserably. I keep going, because I’m already committed.
“Fourth: movie night. Fifth: I teach you how to throw a punch that makes a grown man reconsider his life choices.”
Salem lifts a brow. “Pretty sure I already know.”
“Then you teach me,” I say without thinking.
Her eyes flash. “I might.”
The air between us warms, not from the sun. From something else. Something hungry. Something dangerous.
I stand and offer my hand. Salem looks at it like it’s a trick. Then she takes it. Her fingers are cool from the water, but her grip is firm. I pull her up gently, and she steps close enough that I can smell her—clean soap, creek water, and the faint lingering sweetness of oatmeal.
My body reacts.
Hard.
Immediate.
Unwelcome.
Salem’s gaze drops, then lifts again, like she felt it too—felt the pull, the spark, the way we keep circling the edge of something we shouldn’t touch yet.
She swallows, and I let go of her hand before I do something stupid.
“Come on,” I say, voice rough. “Let’s get you warm.”
Salem nods and follows me back toward the trail, dripping and shivering and alive. And as we walk back to Rainmaker, my mind is already building that list. It isn’t because I think fun will fix what she went through. But because every laugh she manages, every moment she feels like herself again, is a piece of her I’m helping her steal back. And I’m selfish enough to want to be there for every single one.
NINE
SALEM
By the time we make it back to Rainmaker, my skin is pink from the cold and my teeth are one shiver away from falling out. Ozzy’s barely wet anymore. He’s the kind of man whose body seems to run hotter than everyone else’s, like he’s powered by spite and caffeine and the promise of violence for people who deserve it.
Me?
I look like a drenched rat who lost a fight with a creek.
“I’m fine,” I announce the second we step onto the porch, mostly because I can feel his eyes on me, cataloging every tremble like it’s a code he’s trying to crack.
Ozzy opens the door and gestures me inside. “You’re shivering.”
“I’m… vibrating with joy.”
He snorts, and that little sound does something to my chest. It still surprises me how quickly my body believes him when he laughs. Like it hears it and goes, Oh. We’re allowed to be human right now.
The safehouse greets us with warmth. Soft lights. That clean antiseptic smell. The quiet hum of heat through vents. It’s calm in a way that feels almost suspicious, like peace is a trap that snaps shut when you relax.
Ozzy toes off his boots and glances at me. “Go change. Hot shower. Or I’m going to start a fire.”
“In the fireplace?” I ask.
“In the world,” he says, dead serious.
I pause, looking at him.
He holds my gaze like he means it, like he’s already made a promise to whatever deity handles vengeance.
My throat tightens. I hate the way my eyes sting at the edges. “Okay,” I whisper, because I’m not going to cry over warmth and concern and a man who treats my safety like it’s his religion.
I head toward the bathroom, stripping off wet clothes like they’re guilt. My muscles ache in a way that feels good. Like a way that reminds me I’m alive. I turn on the water, waiting for it to heat up.
I stare at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing me. I’ve lost probably ten pounds of weight I couldn’t afford to lose. There’s a few fresh bruises that have bloomed across my back. Probably from the escape. Probably from not having the right nutrients.