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CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

I COULDN’T SLEEP .

Not after what happened in the kitchen.

His voice was still in my ears, low, cracked, frayed at the edges like he was holding something in that wanted to break loose. He stood there, refusing to let me pretend anymore, refusing to let me disappear into silence without a fight.

“Say something,” he’d said, voice thick with ache. “Hate me if you have to. But don’t act like I’m nothing to you.”

And God, it would’ve been easier if I did hate him.

But that was the problem. I didn’t.

And because I didn’t, I had to pretend. I had to act like he didn’t exist, like I hadn’t felt every word like a bruise, like I hadn’t nearly crumbled when I looked in his eyes and saw his regret hanging there, raw and too late.

Because if I let myself feel anything... I’d run straight back into the fire, and I hadn’t survived hell just to set myself ablaze all over again.

Now I sat at the edge of Lucy’s bed, fingers trembling as I reached for the bag she always left cracked open. Inside, tucked beneath a bundle of receipts and a faded flannel shirt, was the purse she didn’t carry anymore.

The one she used to call her “run fund.”

Cash she’d been stashing away for a trip we used to dream about, when things got too hard, when the world felt too close, we would run away to somewhere nothing could touch us.

I swallowed hard, throat tight with shame.

I’ll pay it back. I swear I will.

But the moment my fingers touched the money, guilt slithered up from my gut and wrapped tight around my lungs.

I didn’t count it. Didn’t even look at the amount, because I didn’t deserve to. I shoved the wad into my pocket like it burned, the bile crawling up my throat as I stood.

I hated myself for this.

But staying—staying in this clubhouse, in this air, in those memories—was worse.

Outside the door, the world moved on like it hadn’t broken me. Laughter drifted from the common room, boots thudded down the hallway, and somewhere far off, the familiar rumble of a bike kicked to life. Life was still happening.

And all I could think of was his voice.

Still lingering in the walls.

Still sitting in my chest like a weight I couldn’t shift.

I needed out. I needed to breathe without tasting him in the air. Without people analyzing every move I made. Like I was next in line to be saved.

But I didn’t want saving.

I wanted gone .

Oliver.

He’d come by earlier to see Lucy and Jaycee, quiet, polite, always carrying the faint smell of potato chips and pine like it clung to him no matter where he went. He didn’t stay long. Said he had something to drop off and had to get back. He wasn’t part of this club. He wasn’t looking for anything.

He was my chance.

I slipped out the side door, moving fast and low like a shadow, slipping between patches of moonlight. I kept to the side of the building, steps silent, breath shallow, heart hammering so loudly I was sure someone would hear it and stop me.

But no one came.

I reached his car parked along the fence line, still streaked with dust from the backroads. The back door opened with a creak, and I climbed inside, ducking low beneath a pile of old jackets that smelled like coffee, pine air freshener, and the faintest trace of engine oil.

I curled into myself, arms wrapped tight around my knees, pressing into the fabric like it could hide me from the world, or from myself.

Moments later, I heard the front door open, followed by voices. Oliver’s laugh—soft and easy—drifted back to me, then the click of the door shutting, the turn of keys, and the soft creak of the car shifting into gear.

Music filled the car, his voice singing along with the radio—off-key, relaxed, unaware.

Good.

Let the music cover my breathing, drown out the panic thrumming beneath my skin.

We pulled away from the clubhouse without anyone stopping us. No shouts. No alarms. No footsteps pounding down the gravel to drag me back.

They didn’t know I was gone.

Not yet.

Guilt twisted in my stomach, sharp and relentless.

Lucy would be hurt when she found out. Brenda would be furious. And him—Mystic—he’d probably tear the whole damn county apart looking for me. The farther we drove, the softer that resolve became.

The hum of the tires, the shifting trees, the fading scent of smoke and leather and everything that used to feel like safety—they fell away one by one, and in their place came the truth. Beneath the bravado, beneath the spite, beneath the need to disappear… was the same hollow I’d been trying to outrun since the day I was taken. And now, as the road stretched out ahead and the clubhouse disappeared behind me, I didn’t feel victorious.

I didn’t feel strong.

I felt alone.

Again.

Always again.

***

THE MOTEL REEKED of stale smoke and needed a good cleaning . It wasn’t the worst place I’d ever been, but it wasn’t far off. I’d chosen it for one reason: it was quiet. Hidden. The kind of place that didn’t ask questions or require explanations.

Tucked behind a greasy spoon diner with cracked windows and paint that hadn’t seen a fresh coat in two decades, the place barely held itself together. The neon sign out front buzzed a fading red— VACANCY —a single word blinking like it had given up trying to mean anything more. There was no name, no welcome, no promise of comfort. Just the reminder that there was room here for those looking to get lost.

The woman behind the front desk didn’t bother with eye contact. Her shoulders sagged beneath a threadbare sweater, and her skin looked like it had forgotten sunlight. I handed her the cash—money that wasn’t mine—and gave her a fake name that slipped out of my mouth like a lie I’d practiced. Two minutes later, I couldn’t have repeated it if I tried. She slid the key across the counter without a word, like she’d handed it to a hundred girls before me who were running from something with nowhere left to go.

The room itself was small and tired, like it had survived more than it should have. A single bed sat beneath a warped window, the wallpaper curling at the corners like it was trying to peel away from the life lived here. A bulb buzzed overhead, its flickering light about ready to die.

I closed the door behind me and locked it twice, the sound of the bolt sliding into place oddly satisfying. I checked the windows, then drew the curtains until no light could escape or creep in. I wanted the dark. Needed it to wrap around me and blur the sharp edges of what I’d just done.

Then I sat on the bed—still fully clothed, hands clenched in my lap, spine stiff and aching—and I stayed there, unmoving, my back pressed against the headboard as if that flimsy wall could keep everything else out.

My body wouldn’t stop trembling. My legs were curled to my chest, my chin resting on my knees, and the tension in my shoulders felt permanent. I still felt like I was hiding in the back of Oliver’s car, ducked beneath old jackets, heart pounding so hard I thought it might shake the whole damn vehicle apart.

The room was quiet, but it didn’t matter.

The noise was inside me.

Not voices—memories. Sounds that lived in my bones.

The way Drago said my name like it was his to use. The way Mystic said it like it hurt him to speak. And then my own voice. The one I didn’t use. The one that told me I should’ve stayed quiet. Should’ve never believed I was allowed more.

I pressed my palms to my ears anyway. The silence didn’t help. It never did.

I didn’t cry. The pressure behind my eyes had been there for hours, days even, but nothing came. The tears sat just beneath the surface, waiting. My body didn’t have the strength to let them fall. I was too exhausted to feel anything clearly.

I didn’t want to feel. I wanted to disappear.

But I didn’t vanish. I stayed—solid, aching, haunted.

My thoughts drifted to Lucy. I pictured her waking up, noticing the missing money, her face when she realized it was me, her gut twisting in betrayal. She would tell Spinner, and he’d tell him, and when he did, he’d come for me.

He would chase what mattered to him—heart first, fury second—but he would come. I knew he would tear the clubhouse apart, rip through every lead, question every soul in this state until he found where I’d gone.

But knowing that didn’t change anything, and I didn’t only leave to hurt him. I didn’t leave to make him chase me. I left because I couldn’t breathe around him anymore, couldn’t find a moment of peace with the way his voice clung to the walls and his memory stained every quiet second I tried to steal for myself.

I sighed heavily as I moved off the bed and went into the small bathroom. The mirror was crooked.

I didn’t want to look, but I did. My eyes looked tired. Not sad. Not angry. Just... empty. The bruises were gone. But sometimes, I still moved like they weren’t. I touched my arm and felt nothing, but I remembered the ache.

I pulled the shirt over my head and padded back over the bed. The blanket scratched, but I wrapped it tight. It made me feel small. Safe. I laid down on the bed and waited for sleep. I didn’t want dreams. Just something close to rest.