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Amelia

I sat on the deserted Florida beach as dusk painted the sky in shades of orange and pink, my boys flanking me like sentinels. The rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore masked our hushed voices, nature’s white noise ensuring no one would overhear plans that could get us killed.

We’d chosen this spot carefully -- far enough from the tourist areas to avoid casual onlookers, but public enough that Piston wouldn’t think to look for us here.

My old man hated beaches, hated sand, hated anything that couldn’t be controlled.

The vastness of the ocean offended him somehow, as if the world had no right to be bigger than his ego.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the sand, stretching our silhouettes into distorted versions of ourselves.

How fitting. We’d been living as warped reflections of a family for too long -- smiling in public while wearing concealer over bruises, making excuses for absences at school functions, practicing cover stories until they flowed from our lips more naturally than the truth.

“Do you think he knows we’re gone yet?” I asked, my voice barely audible above the surf.

Neither of my sons answered immediately. They’d learned to measure their words, to calculate risks before speaking. Another gift from their father.

The breeze coming off the water carried a chill that had nothing to do with temperature.

Until this week, I’d been biding my time and slowly preparing.

I’d learned the hard way what happened when we ran.

Then things changed and I knew I needed to get us out of there.

Waiting wasn’t a luxury we could afford.

Watching Piston, the boys’ father, slam my youngest son’s head against the kitchen counter had severed whatever twisted loyalty I still felt toward him.

I’d been with the enforcer for the Devil’s Minions for seventeen years. At least sixteen years too damn long.

I glanced at Chase’s profile, so much like his father’s it sometimes made my heart stutter with fear.

But where Piston’s features were permanently hardened by cruelty and excess, my sixteen-year-old son’s face showed a different kind of hardness -- determination, protectiveness, the kind of strength that built rather than destroyed.

He’d been taking the brunt of his father’s rage for years, positioning himself between Piston and his younger brother whenever possible.

On my other side sat Levi, his slender shoulders hunched against the evening air.

At fifteen, he should have been worrying about homework and video games, not researching safe houses and motorcycle club rivalries.

The fading yellow-green bruise around his eye made my stomach knot with guilt. I should have left years ago.

“We’ve got about eighteen hours before he realizes this isn’t a shopping trip,” Chase said finally, scanning the beach for potential threats.

Always vigilant, my oldest. “Maybe less if he checks the bank account. Especially since he thinks we’re staying overnight somewhere.

When we don’t check into a motel, he’ll come looking for us. ”

I nodded, feeling the weight of time pressing down.

Piston hadn’t wanted me to have access to money -- control was his favorite weapon -- but I’d been skimming cash from the household funds for months, hiding small bills in a tampon box he’d never deign to touch.

It wasn’t much but combined with the emergency credit card I’d applied for in secret, it might be enough to get us to safety.

“He’ll come after us,” I said, stating what we all knew. Piston, aka John Minsley, didn’t lose possessions, and that’s all we were to him -- things to own, to use, to break when the mood struck him.

Levi’s fingers curled around mine, his palm clammy despite the cool evening air. “We planned for that, Mom. The Devil’s Boneyard MC --”

“Keep your voice down,” Chase hissed, though there was no one within a hundred yards of us.

The mention of another motorcycle club sent ice through my veins. Trading one MC for another seemed like jumping from the fire into a different kind of hell. But Levi had done his research, had shown me the forum posts from women who’d escaped abusive situations with their help.

“I know you’re scared,” I told them both, squeezing Levi’s hand. “I am too. But we can’t stay. Not anymore.”

The evidence of that decision was written on my youngest son’s face, in the shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and the bruising from his father’s temper.

It was etched in the scars on Chase’s back from that time Piston had caught him trying to call for help.

It was branded into my own skin, hidden beneath long sleeves even in Florida’s heat.

Behind us, beyond the dunes and the sparse vegetation, our packed car waited -- everything we could safely take without raising suspicion crammed into the trunk. Old clothes, important documents hidden in tampon boxes and hollowed-out books, the few mementos I couldn’t bear to leave behind.

The sky deepened to purple as we sat there, three refugees planning a desperate escape from a man who would rather see us dead than free.

But in that moment, with the endless ocean before us and my boys beside me, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in years -- hope, fragile as sea foam but just as persistent.

Chase stood abruptly, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the sand as he paced a few steps away, never taking his eyes off our surroundings.

At sixteen, he already carried himself like a man who’d seen too much, his shoulders set with a tension that no teenager should know.

The ocean breeze ruffled his brown hair -- the same shade as mine -- but his green eyes, Piston’s eyes, scanned the beach with a vigilance that broke my heart.

“Someone’s coming,” he muttered, nodding toward a couple walking their dog at the far end of the beach. “We should move.”

I watched as he shifted his stance, angling his body to place himself between us and the distant strangers.

The motion was so automatic, so ingrained, that I doubted he even realized he was doing it.

Years of protecting his brother, of trying to shield me when he could -- it had become instinct. And it made me feel like a shit mother.

“They’re just walking their dog, Chase,” I said softly. “They’re not his men.”

His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath his tanned skin. “You don’t know that. Piston has eyes everywhere.”

“We’ve been careful.”

“Not careful enough.” He glanced at his brother, his expression softening marginally before hardening again.

“Levi’s research is good, but Piston will call in every favor, track every account, hunt down every friend we’ve ever had.

” He knelt in front of me, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Mom, if we do this, there’s no halfway.

We either disappear completely or we don’t bother running at all. ”

The fierce intensity in his eyes reminded me so much of his father that for a moment, fear flickered through me -- not of Chase, never of him, but of the genetic legacy he carried.

Would my gentle boy who used to catch and release spiders from our bathroom eventually morph into the monster who’d sired him?

Or was that intensity, channeled through love instead of hate, the very thing that might save us?

“I know what’s at stake,” I told him, reaching out to touch his cheek. He flinched slightly before allowing the contact. Another learned response that twisted my gut with guilt. “That’s why we’re here, making sure every detail is covered.”

Chase pulled away, resuming his watchful stance. “I still think we should split up. I can lead him away, let you and Levi get clear --”

“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended, drawing a curious look from Levi. “We stay together. That’s non-negotiable.”

My eldest son’s face closed off, the way it always did when he disagreed but wouldn’t argue.

He’d been doing it since he was twelve, when he first stepped between his father’s fist and his mother’s face.

The punishment he’d taken that day had taught him that open defiance had consequences, but it hadn’t stopped him from protecting us -- he’d just learned to be smarter about it.

“I’ve got the burner phones,” he said instead, changing tactics. “One for each of us. Untraceable. And I memorized the route to the meeting point. If anything happens, if we get separated” -- his eyes locked with Levi’s --”we meet at the place we discussed.”

Chase had always been the strategist, thinking three moves ahead like a chess player. It was what had kept him alive in Piston’s household -- anticipating rage, diverting attention, creating escape routes.

“What about school records?” Levi asked his brother, his voice cracking slightly. “What if they trace --”

“They won’t,” Chase cut him off, glancing at me apologetically. “Sorry, Mom. But I handled it. Don’t ask me how. You don’t want to know.”

The grim set of his mouth told me I probably didn’t want details. Despite his age, my son had already learned to navigate systems designed to track and trap. He’d had documents falsified, created distractions, probably broken laws I didn’t want to contemplate. All to keep us safe.

“The Devil’s Boneyard contact,” he continued, addressing us both now.

“I checked him out as best I could. Scratch has a reputation for helping women get clear of abusive situations. But reputation doesn’t mean shit in the MC world.

” He dragged a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of uncertainty.

“We’re trusting our lives to a stranger who runs with a different pack of wolves than Dad. That’s all.”