Chapter Eighteen
Riley
I wake up to cold sheets. Alone.
Alone.
What happened?
For a few seconds, I can’t believe it. My mind flails for an explanation, some kind of logic that doesn’t leave me hollow and confused.
I’m lying on my side, one arm thrown out, hand curled around the ghost heat where Breaker slept.
The indentation of him is still there, pressed deep into the mattress, but the warmth’s fading fast. The room’s too quiet, too still, with the only sound the soft tap of rain on the window and the hushed, mocking pulse of my own heartbeat.
Last night was so vivid it feels like a fever dream now.
The way he touched me, how he made me laugh, how he held me until I was sure the world was finally, finally safe.
For a moment, I was something other than a broken thing.
I got to be wanted. I got to be more than my damage.
But now, the silence in the room is sharp as a blade, every second cutting apart the story I tried so hard to believe.
My chest aches. It’s not just disappointment — it’s a kind of grief that knows every heartbreak by their first name.
Breaker wouldn’t just leave. Would he? Would he, really?
I try to reason with myself, but every answer I come up with is worse than the last. Maybe he's grabbing coffee, acting like everything's fine while I'm here losing my mind.
Or he got called away — club business, an emergency.
Or maybe he woke up, looked at me, and realized I was never good enough to keep.
I sit up, pulling the blanket tight around my shoulders, knees hugged to my chest. The air’s cold, but my skin is burning, and I feel small and stupid and so, so tired.
I remember the bed of that monster I’d left behind, how I’d wake with his weight pinning me in place, his hand a heavy shackle over my ribs.
I remember the silence there, how it always meant I’d be punished for something I hadn’t even done.
Have I been running all this time only to end up right back where I started — alone, afraid, waiting for the next bad thing to happen?
The room doesn’t even feel like Breaker’s anymore.
It feels like some secondhand Airbnb, a set piece for a story I was stupid enough to think I could change.
I stare at the ceiling and make myself list possibilities: he’ll be back in a minute; he’s just out at the garage; he’s talking with the guys in the shop; or he’s even making a phone call, trying to figure out how to tell me that last night was a mistake.
Maybe I’m just catastrophizing because I’m wired for disaster.
Maybe I am the disaster.
I drag myself out of bed. The floor is freezing against my feet.
I glimpse myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back.
Hair wild, eyes red, skin blotchy from crying or maybe just from feeling too much all at once.
She looks like someone who’s lost her place in the world and isn’t sure she’ll get it back.
I need to get moving. I need to do something. Anything.
I cross to the bathroom and close the door behind me, shutting out the emptiness of the bedroom.
I turn the shower on as hot as it will go and step inside, bracing myself against the burn.
My mind races in a dozen directions at once: should I stay and wait for him, should I go and never come back, should I pack up my things and disappear before anyone has to look at me with pity in their eyes.
The water scalds, but it doesn’t wake me up.
If anything, it blurs the edges, making the ache inside my chest bigger.
I scrub myself raw, exorcising the ghost of his hands down my spine, across my hips, under my jaw.
My mind dwells on how gentle he was, how careful.
I remember him telling me it was okay to be afraid.
I remember thinking maybe this time I could trust someone, and maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad.
Stupid. How could I be so, so stupid?
I stand under the spray until the hot water runs out and the chill creeps in.
I turn off the faucet and step out, wrapping a towel around myself like armor.
In the fogged mirror, I wipe away the condensation and see the truth written in my reflection: I am absolutely terrified of another repeat…
another monster… another nightmare… and it doesn’t matter how many times I survive it, it never stops feeling like the end of the world.
Get a grip, Riley. You’re not trapped yet.
I get dressed — quick, efficient, no wasted motion.
Shirt, jeans, jacket, shoes, not bothering with makeup; finally, instead of fixing my hair, I just brush it back and tie it in a knot.
I move through Breaker’s place on autopilot, not touching anything, not letting myself linger on the way his shirts are folded on the dresser or the way his aftershave still hangs in the air.
I grab my bag and my phone and don’t look back.
I walk through the bar, head down.
Molly’s behind the counter, drying a glass, eyes sharp and watchful.
She says nothing, but her gaze hits me like a warning shot.
There’s no judgment, just a kind of world-weary understanding.
She sees the panic in my face, the desperate way I’m holding myself together, and I know she knows.
I want to ask her what to do, but I also want to disappear before anyone can witness the fallout.
I walk faster, shoulders tight, praying nobody else will notice me.
The morning air is wet and cold as I step out into the lot; the last remains of a drizzle that looks like it’ll be dead by midday. My car is there — of course it is — sitting where Breaker parked it last night, gleaming and perfect, the memory of him fixing it clinging to the hood like morning dew.
It hurts to look at it. I want to believe the car is proof that he cares, but now it just feels like another thing I owe him, another reason to feel small.
The door unlocks with a soft chirp. I slide into the driver’s seat and drop my bag on the floor, hands shaking as I reach for the ignition.
Then I see them.
Roses. A dozen cut roses, deep red, splayed out across the passenger seat.
The petals are so dark they’re almost black at the edges, lush and vulgar against the cracked vinyl.
My heart leaps into my throat. My breath stalls, my pulse galloping with hope.
Maybe he came back. Maybe he left them for me.
Maybe I was wrong.
I reach for the bouquet, hands trembling so hard I fumble the stems. They’re wet, as if just pulled from a vase, droplets of water clinging to the leaves and pooling in the plastic wrap. There’s no card, no ribbon, just a flat white envelope nestled in the blooms like a secret.
I smile. Imagining.
I want it to be a love note. Something sweet, something playful. Something that proves that last night meant something, that I’m not just a pit stop on Breaker’s way to wherever men like him go when they’re done with women like me.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I peel the envelope open.
I read the words, and the world tilts hard and final.
YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM ME.
I drop the note like it’s on fire. The scream rips up through my chest, raw and jagged, louder than I knew I could be.
For a second, I can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t think.
Instinct takes over. I slap the roses away, sending thorns and stems and petals flying from the car.
The note flutters out of my lap, twisting down to the filthy mat.
My hands are on the wheel before I even know what I’m doing.
Shaking, I turn the key, stomp the gas, and peel out of the lot, tires shrieking over the gravel.
Driving blind, I swerve down narrow side streets, every muscle tense, panic screaming in my head. I feel violated. I feel every ounce of safety Breaker gave me last night evaporate into nothing, replaced by the terror I thought I’d left behind.
The rain drums on the windshield, sharp and frantic.
I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I have to move, have to put as much distance as possible between me and that sick, awful memory.
My vision blurs with tears and panic. I run a stop sign, swerving hard at the last second, the car fishtailing as I fight to keep it on the road.
I'm running again, the way I always do. Only this time, I don't know if I'll ever stop.
Because he's found me.
And he won't stop until I'm dead.