Page 51

I’m curled up on Slater’s couch with my laptop, mindlessly scrolling through social media while I wait for him to text me, when the notification pops up. At first, I almost ignore it—just another random message notification—but something about it makes me click.

What I see makes my blood turn to stone.

Photos. Multiple photos of my ex-boyfriend tied up, slumped against what looks like a concrete pillar. There are big black bold letters scrawled across his forehead and chest: RAPIST. His mouth is taped shut, his eyes wide with what looks like terror and humiliation.

Fucking hell.

This can’t be real.

My hands shake as I scroll through them, each image more shocking than the last. His dick is hanging out. Someone wanted the world to see him like this. Wanted me to see him like this.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Fucking Rapist is spelled across his chest. His shirt is ripped.

My heart races rapidly.

Could this be Slater?

The thought hits me like a sledgehammer. The timing is too coincidental. Slater’s in LA for his games. These photos were taken somewhere that looks like a college campus. And what kind of tape is that? Could it be hockey tape?

I frantically grab my phone and call Slater, my fingers trembling as I dial.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I beg the empty house, calling again immediately.

Voicemail again.

The fact that he’s not answering either means he’s busy doing whatever he did to create these photos, or he’s still at his game. But the sick feeling in my stomach tells me it’s the former.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I start pacing the house, my mind racing with possibilities, each one worse than the last. I glance out the windows, suddenly paranoid that something else is happening, that these photos are some kind of sick joke or threat. What if this is retaliation? What if someone’s coming for me?

My chest starts tightening, my breathing becoming shallow and rapid. The familiar sensation of a panic attack washes over me like a tide I can’t fight.

I run through the house, checking every lock on every door, testing every window to make sure they’re secure. But I don’t feel safe in the living room, too exposed with all those windows. I go to my bedroom, but that feels wrong too, too isolated.

Finally, I end up in his bedroom, locking the door behind me even though it’s just me in the house. The panic is still settling deep in my chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think clearly.

I collapse onto his bed, burying my face in his pillow that still smells like him, and let the tears come. Sobs rack my body as the full weight of what might have happened hits me. If Slater did this—if he really found my ex and hurt him—what does that make him? What does that make us?

Twenty minutes later, my phone finally rings. Slater’s name flashes on the screen, and I answer on the first ring.

“Hey, baby,” he says softly.

“Hey,” I manage, my voice still thick with tears. “How was your game?”

“It was good. We won. Only got a few times in the box.”

I take a shaky breath, needing to know for sure. “Where is your game again?”

“I’m in LA.”

And that’s all I need to hear. The silence stretches between us as the confirmation settles in my stomach like a stone.

“Slater,” I start to cry again, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks.

“Don’t cry, baby.” His voice is gentle, soothing. “It’s over now.”

That confirmation makes me cry more. I’m scared like hell. What has he done?

“You promised,” I sob into the phone.

“I kept my promise to keep you safe.”

“Where are you?” I need to know he’s somewhere safe, that he’s not in trouble, that this isn’t going to come back to destroy him.

“At my hotel.”

“How did you—”

“Sage, baby,” he interrupts, his voice firm but loving. “What’s done is done, okay? I promised to keep you safe, and this is me keeping my word.”

I don’t know how to feel. Part of me is horrified at what he’s done, terrified of the violence he’s capable of. But underneath that fear, something else is blooming in my chest.

Relief.

Pure, overwhelming relief that floods through me like warm water. He went through all this trouble. He somehow found my ex, sought him out, and did this just for me. He put himself at risk—his career, his freedom, his future—to protect me from the monster who’s been terrorizing me.

If this isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

“Are you okay?” I whisper. “Are you hurt? Are you in trouble?”

“I’m fine, baby. Everything’s fine.”

“But what if—”

“No what-ifs,” he says firmly. “He’s never going to bother you again. Ever. I made sure of that.”

I close my eyes, trying to process the mix of emotions swirling through me. Fear, relief, gratitude, love, terror—all of it tangled together until I can’t separate one feeling from another.

“I can’t believe this,” I whisper.

“I’d do anything for you. I thought you knew that by now.”

“I do, I just... I never expected...” I trail off, unable to find the words.

“Expected what?”

“That someone would care enough to...” I can’t finish the sentence.

“To what? To make sure the piece of shit who’s been ruining your life gets what he deserves?”

The protectiveness in his voice makes something warm and grateful bloom in my chest. For months now, I’ve been fighting this battle alone. I’ve been the victim, always on the defensive, always running. But Slater didn’t just offer to help—he took action. He ended it.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks quietly when I don’t respond.

I consider the question seriously. Am I angry? I should be. What he did was violent, illegal, dangerous. It could have ruined everything he’s worked for.

But all I can think about is the relief. The knowledge that my phone won’t buzz with threatening messages anymore. That I won’t have to look over my shoulder everywhere I go. That I can finally, finally stop running.

“No,” I say softly. “I’m not mad.”

“Good. Because I’m not sorry.”

“You should be,” I say. “What you did was insane and reckless and—”

“And necessary,” he finishes. “Someone had to stop him, Sage.”

The tears start again, but these are different. These are tears of gratitude, of love, of overwhelming emotion that I don’t have words for.

“I love you,” I whisper. “I love you so much it scares me.”

“You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he says. “I’ve got you. Always.”