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HONOR

The woods come alive as if welcoming the end of the day—the chirr of cicadas rising like a pulse, the whisper of leaves stirred by the wind, and the distant calls of waterfowl echoing from the lake. I stoop to gather a fallen branch and toss it onto the pile in my arms. The fading light urges me to move faster.

Pregnancy doesn’t slow me down. If anything, it drives me harder. This isn’t just about me anymore. I have to keep us safe—both of us.

“Easy, baby, easy,” I murmur, feeling the determined kick of tiny feet as I reach the tent.

Motel-hopping had seemed like a solid plan at first, but it only left my heart battered. Nerves, anxiety, paranoia—none of it good for me or my baby. Thank goodness for this island. It’s been a haven for three nights. Maybe it will be for a few more, at least until I’m sure it’s safe to return to civilization.

Wild Horse Island felt like the only place I could disappear. Nestled in the vast expanse of Flathead Lake, I can still remember the quiet mornings, the sound of water lapping against the boat. And the way Dad would smile when I caught something—like I’d just reeled in the moon. It’s a place so far removed, so tied to the quiet corners of my memory, that no one—not even Damon Stone—could reach me here.

My search for Junior has been shoved to the sidelines, sealed in yet another box. Twelve years is a long time to wait. Between growing up, navigating the confusion and anger, and now preparing for my baby’s arrival, it has to wait a little longer.

Breaking into the Circle was my only shot at getting to Junior, and it had cost me more than I care to admit.

I started circling the name once I was sure Damon believed I was under his thumb, testing the waters with differently phrased questions and poorly timed conversations that led nowhere.

Damon had been an impenetrable wall—until that night, the last time I said ‘of course’ to him. I must have struck the right nerve because he finally gave me what I needed. I’ll never forget the way he scoffed, almost amused, when I asked who topped his list.

“Chase Samson,” Damon said then. “The best in the Circle—or at least he was. Let’s be real, though. He didn’t walk away on his own. They let him.”

Then, like he was spinning a campfire tale, Damon unraveled Chase’s story—how his last hurrah as a Stoneborn was busting into some thief’s house in Kalispell.

“It’s gonna be a damn show seeing him strung up at the Chapel,” he said with a low chuckle.

The Chapel—a notorious underground bunker stashed by the Circle, where the screams are buried too deep to ever reach the surface. They use it to settle scores—executing their enemies or torturing anyone who crosses the line, even their own. If Damon’s scheming to take Chase there, he better hope I don’t find him first. Chase might’ve gone ghost, wiped himself off the map, but I’ll find him.

A sound jolts me. I spin around, scanning the trees for its source.

Unbelievable!

A thirteen-year-old boy.

Oakley Stone?

My mind falters, tripping over the sight of him—lean and wiry, his face pale and slick with sweat from exertion.

“Jesus, Oak!” I snap, my voice clipped with shock. “I could’ve shot you!”

“I know.” He swallows hard, his chest heaving. “But I had to find you.”

I shut my eyes for a second, grimacing. “Your father sent you after me, didn’t he?” My shoulders slump, waiting for the inevitable—Damon’s men will step out of the shadows anytime now.

But the real question is this: How the hell did he follow me here, to the one place I thought no one could find?

Sensing my frustration, Oakley hesitates. “I’m alone. I ran away. No one knows I’m here. Please, let me come with you.”

My breath hitches. “How did you even find me?”

He looks down, scuffing the dirt with his shoe.

“Oakley,” I press, my voice hardening. “Who brought you here?”

“A fisherman,” he blurts, the words spilling out in a rush. “I swear, he doesn’t know my dad. He didn’t ask any questions.”

I bite back a sigh, not at his explanation, but at his naivety. The real problem isn’t the fisherman—it’s whether his father knows the fisherman.

“If you’re running away from your folks, you’d have had better odds without me,” I say, flicking a glance toward my belly.

“You’re wrong,” he says. “I’ll be safe with you. You always know what to do.”

“Are you being followed?” I ask, my gaze darting past him to the woods, every shadow suddenly alive with possibility.

“Absolutely not!” he snaps, his head jerking up defensively.

“Not even Patch?” I press. The second-in-command is sharper than Damon, cunning and patient. He moves like a leopard, always waiting to strike.

“No one followed me, I swear.” He pauses, his voice softening. “I found you because… do you remember when you read me Treasure Island?”

The question blindsides me. My brow furrows. “Geez... you remember that? That was ages ago.”

“I remember,” he says, his eyes locking on mine. “You told me everyone had a Treasure Island, and it didn’t always have to be a real island. Mine was Iceland. And yours…” He gestures to the ground beneath our feet. “Was Wild Horse Island.”

Damn me. A moment I thought was small, fleeting—a story to comfort a scared kid left alone in a hospital—stayed with him.

“Huh…” I trail off, astonished. I didn’t think I’d ever told anyone else about Wild Horse Island. But I told him. Because he was alone, his arm in a cast, and neither of his parents was there. Like always.

This boy doesn’t belong to the Stoneborn Circle. He doesn’t carry Damon’s cruelty, his manipulations. He’s just a kid trying to figure out the world. A kid who tried so hard to have a father that he didn’t see the cracks in the man he idolized. Maybe he still does.

And that’s why I couldn’t destroy Damon outright—just discard him, leave him behind, and run as far as I could. Because killing Damon would have shattered Oakley’s fragile hope, his fragile dream of family. And I couldn’t be the one to take that from him.

“I’m not your Mama Goose, Oak,” I say.

“You’re not,” he replies. “But you know what she’ll do to me. What he will do to me.”

I exhale, running a hand through my hair. “My parents weren’t saints either.” It’s true, they weren’t perfect. Not like his, though. His parents are a whole different kind of destructive. But there’s something invisible about the bond between a child and their parents—unbreakable cords that tug at you no matter what. Unfortunately, when those parents are cruel, the tug is harsher, more painful. “Still... I’d give anything to have them back.”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he says, squaring his shoulders. “I know how to take care of myself. I don’t need to stay, just to be their punching bag.”

He’s only thirteen. But looking at him now, I realize he’s had to grow up in ways no child should. Too much, too fast—in a way, reminding me of myself.

“When you have the baby, you’ll need help,” he adds quietly. “I can help.”

I sigh, feeling the weight of his words settle on my shoulders. I don’t need his help—not really. But I can’t send him back. Not this time. He might not survive the fallout if I do.

“All right,” I say finally. “You can stay. But you have to listen to me. No arguments.”

He nods, relief flooding his face.

“And you won’t be ‘shredding’ for a while,” I jab.

“It’s cool. Skating can wait. Going to the park’s basically just playing hide and seek with my parents anyway,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But when we’re settled, I’m free to go, right?”

“Yeah. But you’ve gotta be patient,” I say, though I’m not sure how long teenage patience actually lasts. Minutes, maybe?

“What’s for dinner?” he asks, like he’s trying to pretend we’re on some kind of camping trip.

I snort, kneeling to unpack my bag. “Mountain food.”

His face scrunches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see,” I reply, smirking as I pull out the small stash of supplies I managed to carry.

His eyes widen, caught somewhere between excitement and dread. “I thought you’d be out there with a bow and arrow or something. You know, teaching me how to live off the land.”

I hold up a pack of Back Country Lamb and Vegetables, shaking it like it’s a Michelin-star meal. “Sorry to disappoint, Katniss. Welcome to real survival.”

He stares blankly, and I realize with a sigh that Hunger Games isn’t his generation. Kids these days have no idea how good they’ve got it.

“We’ll camp here tonight,” I say, zipping the bag closed. “But tomorrow, we’re leaving at first light. If you found me, someone else could too.”

“Where are we going?” Oakley asks.

“Can I trust you if I tell you?” I counter.

“Of course! We’re in this together, right?”

“Great Falls,” I reveal, watching his expression carefully.

“You’ve got money?” he presses.

“A little. Not much, but enough to get by.”

I worked. Teaching, real estate, retail—whatever paid the bills. Then Damon recruited me as his ‘distraction specialist,’ luring his targets in but never letting them have me. By the time they realized they’d been played, I was already gone. I’ve scraped by on next to nothing, saving whatever I could.

Oakley rummages through his bag, pulling out a thick wad of cash. He offers it with an innocent grin. “This’ll help.”

“Oak?” My eyes narrow. “Where did you get this?”

His sly smile answers before his words do. “Call it my pocket money.”

I growl under my breath but take it anyway. Damn it, it’ll more than help.

Oakley settles on a nearby rock, running a hand through his hair, the easy grin slipping into something more contemplative. I’ve just dragged him further into my chaos. Yet even in this mess, it’s a better option than leaving him with his toxic parents.