Chapter 13 Beck
THIRTEEN
BECK
The cruiser’s taillights bleed red into the snow until the last bend steals them away. Then nothing. Just the mountain breathing again—slow, cold exhales of wind through the pines, the drip of meltwater like tears the sky has finally let fall.
I stand on the porch longer than I should.
The rifle stays in my hands, finger off the trigger, but muscle memory keeps it close.
My heart hasn’t caught up yet. It’s still out there in the trees, still braced for the shot that never came, still waiting for the moment Ethan’s hand would move too fast and force my finger to curl.
When I finally turn, the door opens under my palm like it weighs nothing.
She stands in the center of the room, arms locked around her middle so tightly her knuckles show white.
She stares at the broken mug on the floor as though the dark coffee stain spreading across the boards is the only proof anything real happened today.
Shards catch the weak light like broken promises.
I set the rifle against the wall. The clack of metal on wood sounds too loud.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look up.
I cross to her in three steps that feel like crossing years. I drop to one knee. “Hey.”
Her lashes lift slowly. Those hazel eyes, red-rimmed, glassy, enormous, meet mine and shatter something inside my chest. “He’s gone,” I say, and my voice comes out thinner than I want. “They took him.”
She gives a single nod. Barely there.
I reach for her hands. They’re freezing. Shaking so hard I feel the tremor travel up my own arms. I close my fingers over hers and rub slow circles with my thumbs, the way I did the first night when she was half-dead from cold and shock.
“He said he loved me.” The words crack out of her like glass underfoot. “Like that could undo everything. Like it could make the lies and the chase and the way he looked at me today feel like nothing.”
My throat burns. I stand and pull her in, careful, like she might break if I move too fast. She folds against me instantly, face pressed to the center of my chest, arms trapped between us because she can’t seem to let go of herself long enough to hold me back.
I wrap around her anyway.
One hand splays at the small of her back, pressing her closer until I feel every ragged breath she takes. The other cups the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, holding her like I can keep the pieces of her heart from spilling out.
She starts to shake harder. Not sobs at first, just tremors. Then the first real sound escapes her: small, broken, the kind of cry that comes from somewhere so deep it hurts to hear.
I hold tighter.
I let her fall apart.
I let the grief tear through her in waves, quiet at first, then louder, rawer, until her knees buckle and I have to take her weight, sink us both to the floor so she doesn’t have to stand through it alone.
She cries like she’s mourning more than a brother. She cries like she’s burying the little girl who used to believe her big brother would always catch her when she fell.
I rock her gently. I press my lips to her temple over and over, wordless, useless kisses that say I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
When the worst of it ebbs, she doesn’t pull away. She stays curled in my lap on the cold floorboards, cheek against my heartbeat, fingers finally unclenching enough to fist my shirt.
After a long, shuddering breath she whispers, “I keep waiting to feel free. Like a weight’s supposed to lift. It won’t. It just hurts more now that he’s really gone.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. “I know.”
Her voice cracks again. “He was supposed to be the one person who’d never hurt me. And he did. Over and over. And I still love him. I hate that I still love him.” The confession lands like a fist.
I tilt her chin up with careful knuckles.
I make her look at me. “You’re allowed to love the boy he used to be,” I say, voice rough and low.
“The one who carried you on his shoulders. The one who stayed up when your mom was sick. You’re allowed to grieve that boy.
You’re allowed to miss him. It doesn’t mean you forgive what the man became.
It doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you have a heart big enough to hold both things at once, and that’s not a flaw, Sabrina. That’s strength.”
Tears well again. They spill over. She searches my face like she’s looking for the lie.
She finds none. “I’m so scared,” she whispers.
“Scared that part of me will always be broken now. Scared you’ll wake up one day and see the cracks.
See the sister of the man who tried to buy a killer. See someone too damaged to keep.”
My chest caves. I cup her face in both hands, gentle, reverent, thumbs brushing away the tears as fast as they fall.
“I see you,” I say. Fierce. “Every crack. Every scar. Every piece he tried to break. And I’m not going anywhere.
I’m not here because you’re perfect. I’m here because you’re you.
The woman who drove through a blizzard to do the right thing.
The woman who trusted me when she had every reason not to.
The woman who kissed me like I was oxygen after drowning.
The woman who just cried in my arms for a brother who didn’t deserve it, because her heart is that big. That brave. That beautiful.”
Her lips tremble. “I love you,” she breathes. “So much it hurts.”
I lean in. I kiss her forehead. Her eyelids.
The salt tracks on her cheeks. Her mouth, soft, slow, tasting every tear, every tremble, every piece of her she’s giving me.
“I love you back,” I murmur against her lips.
“More than this mountain. More than the quiet I used to think was enough. More than my own damn life. You’re my home now, Sabrina.
Not the cabin. Not the woods. You. And I’m never leaving. ”
She makes a small, broken sound. Then she kisses me, deeper this time, desperate, clinging, like she needs to feel it in her bones.
When we part, she rests her forehead against mine.
“Take me to bed,” she whispers. “Just hold me. Please.”
I lift her like she weighs nothing. I carry her down the hall. I lay her on the mattress. I kick off my boots. I shed my coat. I climb in beside her.
She curls into me instantly, face buried in my neck, leg hooked over mine, fingers knotted in my shirt like she’ll never let go.
I pull the quilt over us. I wrap her up. I tuck her head under my chin. I hold her so close I feel every beat of her heart against mine.
The room stays quiet except for the drip outside and the soft rhythm of her breathing as it slowly evens.
I stay awake. I listen to her sleep. I listen to the mountain settle around us. I listen to the quiet that finally feels like peace instead of emptiness.
Tomorrow will bring questions. Statements. Lawyers. Maybe more tears. But tonight she’s safe. Tonight she’s mine. Tonight the cracks in her heart don’t scare me.
They just make me want to hold her closer. Because broken things can still be loved. And I am going to love every shattered piece of her until the day I die. And then some.