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“Yeah,” I say, walking over to check the protective covering one more time. “I’m still submitting it.”

“Good. She needs something to look forward to. Something that’s hers.”

I study Marcus’s face, reading the understanding there. He gets it. The painting isn’t just about winning a competition or getting Audrey recognized for her talent. It’s about giving her hope.

“She deserves better than this,” I say.

“Then make sure she gets it.” Marcus straightens up, his expression hardening with resolve. “But do it smart. Do it clean. And do it in a way that doesn’t get either of you killed in the process.”

I nod, feeling some of the rage settle into something colder and more focused. Marcus is right. This isn’t the time for rash moves or emotional decisions. This is the time for planning.

“We better get this to the airstrip,” I say, patting the side of the truck bed.

“You sure you want to make that drive today? After everything that just happened?”

I consider it for a moment. Part of me wants to stay here, to be close in case Audrey needs me. But the other part knows that sitting around doing nothing will drive me insane.

“I need to do something,” I tell him. “And this is something I can actually control.”

Marcus nods, understanding. “Alright, then. Let’s go submit a painting.”

We climb into the truck, and I start the engine, the rumble filling the silence between us. As I back out of the driveway, I catch sight of the cabin in my rearview mirror. The place where Audrey and I spent the weekend, where she painted the canvas now riding in my truck bed, where for a few days we pretended the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Now, that world is crashing back in harder than ever.

The drive to the airstrip to drop off Audrey’s painting will take thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to think, to plan, to figure out how to get Audrey away from a man who should be dead butisn’t. Marcus has a pilot buddy who owes him a favor, someone who can get the painting to San Diego and submitted before the deadline tomorrow.

I pull onto the main road and press the accelerator harder than necessary. The speedometer climbs as we head toward the small regional airport, toward whatever comes next.

Marcus is quiet beside me, letting me drive in silence. He knows I need time to think, time to process what just happened and what it means for everything I want.

One thing is certain: Vega surviving changes the game, but it doesn’t change the outcome. Audrey is mine. She was mine before the bomb failed, and she’ll be mine after. The only question is how much blood I’ll have to spill to make it happen.

In my pocket, my phone buzzes with a text. I pull it out at the next red light.

It’s from Audrey.

Thank you for listening. I know this is bad, but having you makes it bearable.

I type back quickly:

Princess, this is just a setback. I meant what I said. You’re going to be free.

SIXTEEN

AUDREY

I curl deeperinto the window seat of the library, tucking my feet beneath me as I try to focus on the book in my hands. The words blur together, and my mind drifts despite my best efforts.

It’s been a week since Gio was released from the hospital and moved into our guest suite. A week of carefully orchestrated meals, of asking about his pain levels, of Lucille hovering with barely concealed satisfaction at having him under our roof.

The sound of uneven footsteps in the hallway makes me pause. I know that gait now. The slight drag of the left foot, the compensating heavier step with the right.

The rhythm of approaching danger.

I force my eyes back to the page and pretend to be absorbed in my book when all my senses are attuned to the doorway. The footsteps pause, and I feel his presence before I see him, like a change in atmospheric pressure.

“There you are,” Gio drawls. “I’ve been looking for you.”