Chapter 12 Melissa #2
We passed the bottle back and forth until it was dry. My tongue got thick, my lips numb. I felt like I was floating half an inch off the rug, lighter than I’d been in years. The words came easier, so I let them tumble out.
“I watched my mom die,” I said. “Not all the way, but enough to know what happened. She was running, just like me. And he—Cutler—he let her go, because he needed me more. Because I was useful. He only started chasing after she was gone, and then it was like I was the only thing keeping him king of the dipshits.”
Augustine squeezed my shoulder, not saying anything. It was weirdly better than any words.
“I keep thinking if I run far enough, or fight back hard enough, he’ll just stop trying. Or that Saint will finally put a bullet in his head, and I’ll be free.” I coughed, bitter. “But that’s not how it works, is it? You never really get out.”
He leaned in and rested his chin on the top of my head. “You get out, or you die trying. That’s all there is.”
We sat like that, nothing left but empty bottles and the taste of old ash, for what felt like hours.
Augustine’s body was a furnace, all muscle and heat and restless energy, but his hand stayed gentle, never pushing for more.
It was the first time I’d ever felt safe with someone who could so easily kill me.
“I’m not going back,” I said again, this time a whisper, a vow.
He nodded, his chin rough against my scalp. “You won’t have to.”
I believed him, or wanted to. It was enough for now.
Outside, the sun was bright enough to turn the glass in the broken window into a sliver of fire. Inside, I let my past burn down to the foundations. I would build something out of this ruin, even if it was just a different version of myself.
The next time someone came for me, I wouldn’t run.
I’d be ready to fight.
***
The sun was full up by the time the bottle ran dry.
The fire had turned to embers, and the only warmth left was what Augustine and I could steal from each other.
I sat cross-legged on the rug, blanket around my shoulders, and watched him patch his side with a half-assed mix of duct tape and gauze he’d found in the bathroom.
There was blood on his hands, dried in the lines of his palms. It made him look older, almost ancient, like a statue left out in the rain.
He caught me watching and shook his head, then tossed the whiskey bottle into the corner. “Guess we’re out of ways to ignore the shitstorm,” he said.
I shrugged, letting the blanket slip and pooling it at my waist. “You wanna run, or you wanna fight?”
Augustine laughed, that raw, broken sound. “You ask like there’s a difference.”
I looked away, embarrassed by how much I needed him to say the right thing. “My whole life it was run or get run over. I always figured you Bloody Scythes were supposed to be better than the Leatherbacks. Not just more efficient at being assholes.”
He hesitated, then came over and sat next to me, his knees almost touching mine.
He looked at the mess we’d made—bloody towels, cigarette butts, the splinters in the floor where I’d left nail marks—and I saw something change in his face.
Like maybe he was finally starting to believe I was real, not just another job or obligation.
“Want to know the real secret?” he said, voice low. “Nobody ever gets out clean. Not me, not you. Not anybody who ever loved a club or killed for one.”
I pulled my knees up to my chest, arms wrapped around them, and waited for him to finish.
“My old man was a Scythe,” he said. “Not like the ones now. Back then, it was all about respect, family, and keeping the cops off our backs. I was twelve when I watched him kill my mom.” His eyes didn’t waver. “That’s how I learned about loyalty.”
He didn’t sound sad or angry. Just tired. So tired it made my bones hurt.
We sat with that story, letting it gnaw through the silence. I didn’t know what to say, so I just reached out and laced my fingers through his, palm to palm, like kids hiding from the world under a sheet.
“I guess we’re both legacy cases,” I said, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. “Club kids who never learned how to want something else.”
He squeezed my hand, not letting go. “Maybe we get to want it now.”
A shaft of sunlight cut through the window, turning the dust in the air into a swirl of tiny, desperate angels.
I watched Augustine watch the light, his face cycling through a dozen emotions—fear, hunger, hope, then back to fear again.
He was holding on by the thinnest thread, and I was the only thing keeping him from slipping.
“Can I stay with you?” I asked, voice so soft I almost didn’t hear it myself.
He looked up, startled. “You mean… here? With me?”
I nodded, then forced myself to look him straight in the eye. “I don’t want to go back to Durango. Or the Leatherbacks. Or any of it. Even if it kills me, I’d rather try to live like this. Like us. Like people, not property.”
His mouth worked, trying to find words. He ended up just pulling me into his lap, arms crushing tight around my ribs, as if he let go, the whole universe would collapse.
“You sure?” he asked, voice trembling. “Because the Scythes aren’t any safer than the ‘Backs. Maybe worse.”
“I’m not looking for safe,” I said. “I’m looking for true.”
For a second, I saw the little boy inside him, the one who’d been forced to clean up after his father’s violence and never learned to stop.
Then I saw the man, the one who’d bled for me and held me through the storm and let me bite his shoulder until I tasted blood.
I liked them both. Maybe I loved them both, which was a sick joke the universe would appreciate.
“I’ll keep you,” Augustine said, grinning like he’d just pulled off a perfect bank job. “I’ll keep you until the world burns down.”
We sat there, fingers still woven together, and watched the dust motes turn gold in the rising sun. I knew the world would come looking. I knew there’d be blood and more running and maybe a body count nobody could keep up with. But for that moment, I belonged to something, and it belonged to me.
I wasn’t just a runaway, or a prize, or a bargaining chip. I was Melissa. I was Augustine’s. And for the first time in my life, I knew exactly what that meant.
Somewhere out there, the Leatherbacks were gearing up for war. The Scythes would answer. The cops would play dumb, and Durango would pretend not to notice the body bags stacking up on the border.
But in this cabin, in the cold light of morning, there was only the two of us.
I kissed him, slow and certain, and felt the promise in it like a brand.
The rest of the world could burn.
We’d build something out of the ashes.