Page 77 of Held-
My hands keep shaking as I take it. The air hits me with a clarity that feels wrong, as if nothing should look untouched after what almost happened. I fasten the strap and climb on behind him, fighting to pull in a deep breath.
The engine rumbles beneath us as he pulls away from the alley. My chest tightens, a mix of anger, shame, and relief twisting together until I can’t tell them apart.
I press my forehead against his back, eyes stinging, and let the motion of the bike pull me somewhere—anywhere—else.
BRAYDEN
Every mileon the road isn’t enough to outrun the fury burning through my veins. I can still feel Ethan’s throat beneath my forearm, the give of his windpipe, how fucking close I came to crushing it completely. Three more seconds of pressure, and the world would’ve had one less piece of shit in it.
I shouldn't have let her stop me.
The wind whips around us as I push the bike faster feeling Cece's arms tighten around my waist. Her body trembles against my back, whether from the cold or the aftershock, I can't tell. Probably both. The red marks on her wrists flash in my mindwith every blink—perfect impressions of that motherfucker's fingers marking what's mine.
What's mine. The thought hammers through me with each heartbeat. She's mine to protect, mine to keep safe, and I fucking failed.
I pull off the main road, cutting down a side street that leads to Jillian’s property. Cece doesn’t question where we’re going, just holds on tighter as we take the curves too fast. I need to get her somewhere safe—somewhere I can make sure she’s okay, somewhere I can finally let this anger out before it burns me alive from the inside.
When we reach the guesthouse, I kill the engine but don’t move immediately. I need a moment to get myself under control. To push down the urge to get back on this bike, track Ethan down, and finish what confrontation I started.
I feel Cece’s hands slide around to my chest, her touch light but steadying. She seems to sense I’m hanging by a thread.
“Brayden,” she murmurs, her voice soft against my ear. “Let’s go inside.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My hands are still shaking with adrenaline as I dismount the bike and help her down. She winces when she pulls off the helmet, and that small flash of pain sends another surge of fury through me. I want to punch a wall—anything to drown out the image of what I’d do if Ethan were in front of me right now.
I unlock the door and guide her inside, my hand resting protectively at the small of her back. Once we’re in, she stands in the middle of the living room, looking lost, arms wrapped around herself as though she’s trying to keep everything from unraveling.
“Do you want some water?” I ask, desperate for something normal to do—anything that doesn’t involve imagining all the ways I could make Ethan pay.
She shakes her head. “I just need…” The words fade, unfinished.
I move toward her carefully. When I reach her, I take her hands in mine and turn them over, examining her wrists. The marks have deepened, faint red bands that’ll bloom into bruises by morning. I brush over them with my thumbs, keeping my touch as gentle as I can manage.
I’m going to kill him. Plain and fucking simple. It isn’t a question ofif—it’swhen.
The thought is so sharp, so vivid, it nearly slips past my lips. I choke it back, but the taste of violence lingers on my tongue, cold and metallic.
“I need to clean these. Sit down.”
She obeys without argument, sinking onto the couch while I head to the bathroom for the first aid kit. My hands are still shaking when I return, but I force them steady as I kneel in front of her.
“This might sting,” I warn, dampening a cotton pad with antiseptic. There are small crescent marks where his fingernails dug into her skin. I dab at them gently, watching her face for any sign of pain.
“I'm sorry,” she whispers, and something inside me snaps.
“Don't you dare apologize. Not for this. Not for him.”
“I should have?—”
“No.” I look up from her wrists and meet her gaze. “He followed you into that bathroom. He put his hands on you. There’s nothing you should or shouldn’t have done.”
She bites her lower lip, blinking hard as tears threaten—but refuse—to fall. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone as badly as I want to hurt Ethan in this moment. The need for violence sits in my chest like a living thing, coiled and ready to strike.
The cotton pad tears in my hand. I force myself to breathe, to keep my grip gentle on her wrists, even as frustration pulses through me.
“I should’ve killed him,” I mutter, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
She shakes her head, a single tear finally trailing down her cheek. “And then what? You’d be in prison, and he’d still win.”