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She locks him out of that wonderful, complicated head again.

He carves a basswood key, and he wishes that was enough.

Finn doesn’t ask why I suddenly want to leave; he just drives me home.

On the way, he asks what happened a single time, and when I don’t answer, he doesn’t bring it up again.

He leaves me alone. When I clamber out of his truck and stomp into the main house without a word, he lets me.

He doesn’t follow me upstairs to my old bedroom either, and I’m grateful for that because I’d feel really, really bad about slamming a door in his face.

I don’t mean to do it. I don’t actively ignore him. I’m just too lost in my own thoughts to award any attention to anything else. I’m mentally slotting puzzle pieces together. I’m obsessively pondering why the fuck Ricky was rubbing elbows with the fucking Weber boys.

And eventually, I’m coming to the conclusion that I was right. Five people did break into the A-frame.

Ricky, Vic, Ethan, Carl, and Clint.

The five horsemen of my own personal apocalypse.

I wish I could say I didn’t get it, but I do. I know exactly why they’ve joined forces.

Me.

I did it.

And I’m as furious with myself as I am with them.

Sprawled on my bed, I stare at the ceiling.

I think some more—I think myself into damn circles.

It doesn’t particularly matter, but I try to figure out the how as well as the why .

The when of it all. Is it just about me, or is it Ruin too?

Lux? My brother? What’s the goal here, what the hell are they trying to do?

It makes sense, and it doesn’t. I get it, but I don’t.

I don’t know what to do, but I can think of one thing.

When footsteps sound from the hallway, I quickly roll onto my side, my back to the door that cautiously creaks open, and pretend to be asleep.

More quiet, tentative footfalls. A clunking sound as someone sets something on my dresser—food, I think, if the mouthwatering smell is anything to go by.

The groan of an old bedframe as someone perches behind me, rough denim against the strip of bare skin where my sweater has ridden up.

Warm, calloused fingers I’d recognize anywhere sweep my hair away from my face, caressing the contour of my ear.

I breathe slow and steady, unmoving, praying my thundering pulse doesn’t give me away, and eventually, Finn leaves. When he returns hours later, once the sun has set and the house is quiet and the dinner he brought has long gone cold, I pretend to be asleep then too.

That is until I hear a sigh, the rustle of sheets, the soft thud of a pillow hitting the floorboards. Then, I roll over. Eyes still closed, I reach out blindly, fingers connecting with solid muscle and locking around it.

I tug once, and Finn comes. He crawls into bed with me, settling on top of the covers with a notable gap between us, his palpable hesitation making my chest hurt with a dull, wrong ache.

I murmur his name, I tug again, I wriggle closer until my face finds warm skin, and only then does he relax.

Only then does he shift onto his side too, my lips pressed to the notch of his throat while his chin grazes my crown, one arm slipping beneath my head while the other slings over my hip.

I wait until his breathing slows, until his grip slackens, before slipping out of bed.

In what might be the smartest move of my life, I leave Ruin in the barn. Even I can acknowledge that galloping off into the night on an unpredictable, saddleless steed with a loaded gun slung over my shoulder is a piss-poor idea.

Gaia is the much more sensible choice. Strong and steady between my thighs, and fast too, despite her size, and it makes me feel better about the situation I’m voluntarily entering, the fact I’m riding a veritable beast into battle.

Not battle . I need to stop thinking of it like that. I’m not looking for a fight. The shotgun Lux keeps locked up in the barn in case of predator-related emergencies is a precaution, not a necessity. I don’t want a confrontation.

I want an answer. Because during my endless ruminating, another question arose—where the hell is Ricky staying?

Where would he and the others be that they could dip in and out of town, but Deputy Dickhead couldn’t track them down?

How did they get onto Serenity, to the A-frame, without anyone noticing?

Confirmation . That’s what I’m looking for. Because I know.

I could be wrong, and I kind of hope I am, but I don’t think so. I’m pretty damn sure I know exactly where my old friends have been hiding out, and the closer I get to the trailer that shouldn’t be here, the more sure I get.

The lights are on. Thundering music disturbs the peaceful night. There’s a car parked outside, one I unfortunately recognize, and I don’t feel any kind of triumph at being right.

Stopping a couple hundred feet shy of the trailer, I dismount Gaia and leave her to blend into the darkness before sprinting the rest of the way.

I don’t knock. Why the fuck would I? If I could break the door down, I would, but I settle for throwing it open so hard, it bangs against the wall almost as loudly as I demand, “Get the fuck out.”

No one moves.

Ricky, Vic, and Ethan stare at me, stunned into silence by my sudden appearance.

There’s no sign of anyone with the last name Weber, and my grip on the shotgun strap loosens—after all, it certainly wasn’t the thought of finding Tweedledum, Tweedledee, and Tweedlefuckwit that spurred me into taking it.

“Right fucking now.” Propping one hand on my hip, I stab my pointer finger out the door. “Get the fuck off my land.”

That snaps at least one of them from their stupor. It’s Vic who snickers, who slumps deeper against the couch cushions, who sneers, “ Your land . Rich bitch.”

“ Armed rich bitch,” I correct, already itching with the urge to point said arm in their direction.

Scare them into taking me seriously. Only I don’t because that’s exactly what the Webers would do, that’s exactly what they do do, and fuck me big time if I’m ever going to be like them.

“I knew you three were morons, but Jesus. You really don’t know how ranchers handle trespassers? ”

Ethan scoffs. “You’re not gonna shoot us.”

“Do you want to fucking bet?”

“Woah.” Ricky leans forward, blocking my view of his brother and holding his hands up in surrender. “Relax, okay?” He pats his knee, and if his red eyes didn’t give away his altered state, the cock of his jaw would. “Come sit.”

I do no such fucking thing.

“Right.” Ricky snickers, resentment contorting the face I can’t believe I used to think of as handsome. “I forgot you’re all hung up on that pussy-ass cowboy now.”

Jesus. Again with that. My eyes water with the stench of his insecurity. “What exactly makes him a pussy, Ricky?”

Rolling his lips together, he doesn’t answer.

“Go on.” I gesture erratically for him to continue. “What is it, huh? What’s so pussy about him? Is it that he’s nice to me? He supports me? He hasn’t, he wouldn’t , leave me in a fucking wrecked car or break into my house?”

Ricky groans, dropping his head backward so it hits the trailer wall with a thud. “You’re still caught up on that?”

That . Like it was nothing. So fucking dismissive of the fact I got hurt, that I continued to be hurt for months, that I still hurt sometimes. “Yeah, funnily enough, I am.”

He sways as he stands, so drunk or high or who knows what that he doesn’t think twice about stumbling towards the very angry woman wielding a gun, that he thinks reaching for me is wise. “Listen, babe—”

The moment his fingers graze my arm, I rip it from his grasp. “Do not touch me.”

Scoffing at the rejection, his hand balls into a fist. “You should be thanking me. You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t done that. You wouldn’t be back with your perfect family and your perfect life and your perfect pussy boyfriend.”

“Y’know what.” I laugh, shaking my head before nodding. “Yeah. Actually, thank you. Thank you for showing me exactly what I don’t want. Thank you so much for throwing a brick through my window and reminding me how much you fucking suck.”

Vic snorts, backhanding her boyfriend’s chest. “Told you it was hers.”

I’m not a violent person. I can be aggressive, sure, but that’s always been more of an emotional trait than a physical one. But shit, Vic and her smirk, that self-satisfied sense of superiority she’s so ironically always accused me of having, are testing me to my damn limits.

Screw it.

Fuck me big time, I guess.

In a split second, I’m holding the shotgun the way I was taught when I was teenager, when I was naive and stupid enough to think guns were as cool as the jackass who wielded it.

I point it at Vic, and I can immediately tell the girl’s never handled a gun in her life—completely oblivious to the fact the safety is still on and my finger isn’t anywhere near the trigger, she turns white. “You think that’s funny, Vic?”

I take a step forward, and she becomes a particularly heinous shade of green.

“You fuck with me, fine. Whatever. God knows I can handle a piece of shit like you. But you do not fuck with my friends, do you hear me? And if you even think about my family…” I trail off, shifting my gaze to Ricky, looking him right in the eye to make sure he can see damn well how deadly serious I am. “I will shoot you. Got it?”

The most sombre I’ve ever seen them, the trio nod.

As I lower my weapon and palpable relief replaces the metallic tang of fear, I almost laugh. I don’t, though. Because what I just did isn’t funny. I got no pleasure out of it. I just wanted to make myself crystal fucking clear, and I hope to God I’ve succeeded.

Because I am serious. If they touch my family, if they even think about it, I’ll do exactly what a rancher does to a predator.

I’ll put them the fuck down.

With a stilted nod of my own, I sling my gun over my shoulder again and utter one final warning before getting the fuck out of there. “Do not be here tomorrow.”