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)
I move closer and crouch beside her chair, my hand resting on the edge of the table—not touching her yet, but close. “Hey,” I say gently, my heart pounding. “Look at me.”
Salem’s gaze meets mine.
“You’re safe,” I tell her. “Right now, you’re safe. And if anything changes, I’ll know before they get within a mile of you.”
Her breath trembles. “You promise?”
I nod once. “I promise.”
Salem’s eyes shine, but she blinks it away quickly like she hates tears. Then she whispers, “I was having fun.”
“I know,” I say, and anger burns in my chest again. It’s hot and sharp. “And you’re going to have fun again.”
Her lips part like she wants to believe me.
I hold her gaze and add in a low voice, “Nobody gets to steal that from you.”
Salem exhales slowly. She leans forward just a little, her forehead almost touching my shoulder. And I finally let my hand slide to her hair, smoothing it back carefully.
Outside, the woods stay quiet. Inside, the safehouse stays warm. But my instincts stay awake. Because somewhere out there, someone might’ve gotten close enough to see her laugh.
And if they did, then they just made the worst mistake of their lives.
THIRTEEN
SALEM
The night feels different now. Not because anything’s changed about Rainmaker—the same soft quiet settles over everything, the same thick, warm air that still feels too safe, almost borrowed—but because I’m the one who’s different. My body knows it. My nerves won’t let me forget.
After Magnolia Ridge, after the string lights on the patio and the easy laughter that felt so good until it didn’t. Ever since Ozzy saw that white van sitting there at the curb like a bad omen, windows blacked out, engine idling low. Ever since, my skin’s been tuned to every sound. Every small creak in the house sends my pulse kicking. A branch scrapes the siding in the wind and my brain translates it instantly: someone testing the window latches, someone breathing too close.
Ozzy moves through the safehouse the way he always does when things get tight—methodical, almost ritualistic. Front door deadbolt, back door chain, every window latch checked twice, then the cameras on the tablet, thumb scrolling slow across the feeds. He’s done this loop so many times it looks like muscle memory, like safety isn’t something you hope for; it’s something you carve out again and again with your hands.
I’m curled on the couch, blanket dragged up to my chin like armor, trying to fake calm. Trying to talk my heart down from its stupid sprint. The TV murmurs low in the background. It’s a cooking show nobody’s really watching, just some noise to fill the space.
Ozzy finishes the last sweep and comes back into the living room. His eyes find me first, the same quick, sharp scan he gives every corner of the house, every shadow. Then something in his face eases. The hard line of his mouth softens, his shoulders drop maybe half an inch. It’s small, but it’s permission. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Tea helped?” he asks.
I nod. “A little.”
He crouches in front of me again, like he did earlier, like he’s learned I don’t do well with him towering. “Talk to me.”
I swallow, staring into my mug like it might have answers. “I didn’t like it.”
“The van?” His voice is calm, but I hear the bite under it.
I nod again. “It felt like—” My throat tightens. “Like it could happen again. Like I’m never really safe.”
Ozzy’s jaw flexes. He looks like he wants to punch something. The wall. The air. The entire concept of men who take girls.
He reaches out slowly, giving me time to flinch if I need it, and rests his hand over mine. It’s warm, heavy, and steady. “You’re safe here,” he says.
I want to believe him. I do believe him, I think. As much as I can believe anyone. But the fear doesn’t vanish just because someone says the words. Fear’s a parasite. It lives in your muscles. Your stomach. Your throat. It nests. I squeeze his fingers back without thinking.
Ozzy’s gaze drops to the contact, then lifts to my face. Something flickers there. His eyes darken and my heart pounds loudly in my chest.
He pulls his hand away first, like he’s reminding himself of rules only he knows. “Let’s get you to bed,” he says, voice rough.
My stomach flips. Because bed has become a loaded word for me. Bed is where I woke up last time with my nails digging into his shirt, desperate for something solid. Bed is where I realized how easy it is to need him. Bed is where my body has started to… want things I’m not sure I’m allowed to want.
I stand and follow him down the hall, trying to ignore the way the lights throw soft shadows, trying to ignore the way my bare feet sound too loud against the wood floor.