Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Home. The word lands different now.
Not just a place.
A miracle.
Inside, Grandpa lays back down in his bed falling asleep like his eye lids can’t hold the weight of the day anymore. Josie makes tea on autopilot. Raff checks the locks twice. Men drift outside, giving space, talking low.
Miles doesn’t sit. He stands in the corner of the living room like a guard dog, eyes tracking every window, every shadow.
I wash my hands at the sink for the third time even though the blood is already gone. I can’t stop. My skin feels contaminated with their fingerprints, their threats.
When I turn, Miles is right there.
He reaches for me carefully, like he’s asking permission with his eyes.
I nod. He cups my face in both hands and leans his forehead to mine. “You’re safe,” he murmurs.
I close my eyes, trembling. “I don’t feel safe.”
His thumbs brush my cheeks, wiping away tears I didn’t realize were still falling. “I know,” he says quietly. “But you are. You are now.”
I open my eyes. His are bloodshot. There’s grime at his hairline. He looks like he rode through hell and didn’t blink.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I whisper, even though the thought makes no sense, even though he’s the reason I’m standing here.
His expression turns fierce. “Don’t,” he says, voice sharp. “Don’t ever say that.”
I swallow. “Miles, you could’ve gotten killed.”
“I’m not leaving,” he states, cutting me off like he’s afraid the words will disappear if he doesn’t say them fast enough. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever, if you don’t want me to.”
My throat tightens. My whole body feels bruised inside, but the words land like warmth.
“You have a life,” I whisper. “North Carolina. The club. The road.”
He shakes his head, eyes locked on mine. “My life is wherever you are,” he says, rough and honest. “I been running my whole damn life. I’m done running away. I’m running right into this all day, every day and night. I want this Danae.”
The room goes quiet around us. Josie’s hand pauses on the kettle. Raff shifts, giving us space without leaving.
I stare at Miles, trying to process that someone like him could choose stillness. Could choose us.
And my anger flares, hot and sudden. “Those men took me from you,” I begin, voice shaking. “They, they said things. They,” My breath catches. “They used you like a threat. Like a joke.”
Miles’ eyes darken. His hands tighten gently on my face, steadying me.
“I’m here,” he says. “They don’t get to touch you now.”
Tears spill again, helpless. “I’m so tired,” I confess.
He nods like he understands that kind of tired. Bone-deep. Soul-deep. “Then you sleep,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”
I shake my head. “I can’t. Every time I close my eyes I think I’m there again.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice so it’s just for me. “Then we do it different,” he says. “We sit. We breathe. We keep the lights on. You hold my hand. You lay in my arms. You don’t gotta be brave alone.”
My chest caves. Because that’s the thing. I’ve always been brave alone. I didn’t realize how heavy it was until someone offered to carry it with me.
I nod, small. Miles’ gaze flicks to Grandpa who is awake again.
“Sir,” he says, respectful. “I won’t let anything happen to her again.”
Grandpa’s eyes shine. “I believe you,” he says simply.
Miles looks back at me. “I’m not leaving,” he repeats, softer now. “Say the word and I’ll stay. Here. Arkansas. Wherever.”
My voice comes out like a whisper. “Stay.”
The word tastes like hope and fear braided together. Miles exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, baby. I’m here.”
And for the first time since my car died on that dark road, my body loosens just a fraction—enough to feel the truth of it settle into my bones.
I’m home.
Grandpa is alive.
And Miles is standing in my living room, choosing me like it’s the only choice that makes sense.
Nineteen
Miles
Danae stands in the doorway to her bedroom, one hand on the frame, like she’s asking herself if she’s allowed to cross the threshold back into normal life.
I watch her breathe. Slow. Careful. She’s still here. That thought hits me again and again, each time like it’s new. “You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods, but her eyes are too bright. “I think so. I just don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be,” I reiterate, and there’s no hesitation in it. “Not tonight. Not after.”
She steps back, giving me room to follow her in.
The bedroom smells like her, clean laundry, soap, something softer underneath. The bed is neatly made, like she left it expecting to come back. That thought tightens my chest until it hurts.
I close the door behind us, slow, gentle. No locks. No sudden movements. I want everything about this moment to tell her she’s safe.
She sits on the edge of the bed and rubs her hands together, staring at the floor.