26. Elle
Elle
A roar of an engine tears through the quiet night, splitting the air like a scream. My breath catches, heart stalling mid-beat. It feels like a ghost is dragging chains across the floor of my memory.
I smell exhaust, taste adrenaline on my tongue, and suddenly I’m back in that panic room with gunfire echoing against steel walls. My knees weaken. My body remembers what my mind and my memory refuse to fully reveal.
Gunfire. A tracker buried in one of my skin grafts. Sterling’s hands, steady despite the blood. Clo’s lies unraveling with every pulse of pain, until the truth cut through the haze. Sterling was never the villain who took me from Clo. He was the one pulling me out.
And now that same engine roar is heading toward him again. I’m terrified and frozen—blood pounding, limbs rooted—but Stan moves as if it’s his instinct to cover me, to not cower in the face of certain danger.
One second he’s saying something under his breath, the next he’s a wall in front of me. That protective force in him switches on like a flipped fuse.
“Get behind me,” he orders, already stepping forward.
“Stan—”
“Now, Elle.” His voice is steel laced into the syllables. “Don’t argue. Stay behind me at all costs.”
I nod, even though he can’t see it. My hands curl into the back of his shirt, the fabric damp from dew and sweat. But I stay close, right behind him.
We move, quiet and careful. Branches crunch underfoot as the trees thin and we approach the edge of the woods. The cabin comes into view, the familiar warm glow spilling from the window. But the scene outside steals the breath from my lungs.
There’s a man there, head to toe in black with a leather jacket and a helmet on. He steps off his motorcycle in a graceful glide.
Something in the way he moves claws at the back of my mind. The tilt of his head. The angle of his shoulders. It’s familiar in the way nightmares sometimes are, too vague to grasp. But my breath stalls all the same, my memory reaching and failing.
Then, from behind him, the biker swings out a gun with a round magazine. My breath lodges in my throat. I choke on it, my fingers tightening in Stan’s shirt.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. The words barely reach me, soft as breath. “Sterling will be fine. He always is.”
But my lungs refuse to work. My throat feels like it’s locked shut. My legs refuse to move. All I can do is hold on to Stan. His heat in my hand is the only thing keeping me tethered while everything inside me threatens to fall apart.
The armed biker lifts his gun. He points it straight at the cabin window. Straight at where Sterling is. My heart lurches for him.
But Stan doesn’t hesitate. “Goddamn it,” he mutters as he moves. “Can’t even have one nice night to enjoy a fucking kiss.”
His movements feel defiant, as if he’s daring to flirt with fate. My stomach twists hard, dread coiling hot in my gut. Every step he takes feels like one too many.
“Elle, let go,” he says. But it sounds too close to a goodbye again. Too close to the one he gave me a moment ago, as if our farewells are stitched into the seams of every moment we steal.
“No,” I breathe, reaching for him, but he catches my wrist.
“You stay here and hide,” Stan says, his tone brittle. “Don’t move unless I don’t come back. If I go down, you run. You get to Sterling. You don’t stop. You don’t look back.”
“Stan—”
“I mean it, Elle.” His eyes pierce into me with a fierceness I can’t fight against. “Don’t follow me.”
He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. Then he’s gone. His body disappears into the shadows, silent and sure-footed, moving toward the darkness surrounding the armed biker, stepping around with reckless resolve.
The leaves hush in the wind. And I’m standing in the dark, hidden and trembling. The stars are still above me. But I can’t see them anymore through the blur of fear.
But then, a hand clamps over my mouth. I gasp, panic blooming. I twist, though I’m too startled to fight.
“It’s me,” Sterling breathes against my ear.
Relief crashes into me so fast I almost collapse. My heart hammers. My entire body thrums from leftover fear. But Sterling’s here. He’s holding me. I’m safe. So is he. His arm is tight around my waist, keeping me close to his chest, while we stay hidden.
I blink fast, trying to clear the blur from my vision.
The biker steps forward, helmet still on, and gun still raised.
The steel glints under the moonlight. Stan moves in the distance.
Fast, silent, circling around wide like he’s stalking prey.
I suck in a breath. My fingers wrap around Sterling’s arm.
The biker doesn’t seem to notice Stan. Instead, his head tilts eerily toward the cabin, aiming his weapon at the front door.
Sterling goes still behind me. I can feel it. Every part of him locked in place, coiled and waiting. I press back into him instinctively. His chest is firm against my spine.
It shouldn’t feel spine-tingling. But it does. It’s as if we’re in the vineyard all over again. When he held me like this. When there was already something between us neither of us could explain.
His hand grips my waist. I’m protected, steady, his.
“That’s him,” Sterling mutters into my ear. “Same one who shot down the safe house.”
I nod. I thought as much. Despite that, it doesn’t ease my worries any better. I’m still worried over Stan, watching him move stealthily. He’s nearly behind the biker now. But then the biker turns. He sees Stan. My skin prickles. But the gun lowers.
“What’s happening?” I whisper.
“Clo probably gave the gunman instructions,” Sterling answers. “Don’t touch her favorites.”
I blink, frowning. “Favorites?”
“Stan.” He clutches my waist. “And you.”
The implication’s too much. The biker sees only one threat. Sterling. But in his arms, I feel safe. I know he’ll stay safe too. Because no matter what Clo sends our way, Sterling is already here, holding me exactly where I want to be. With him.
Stan steps fully into the clearing, toward the man whose weapon now hangs loose at his side. But the biker doesn’t make a move or sound. His helmet tilts, his posture unnervingly still. He waits, head angled as if he’s studying Stan’s face, expecting an order.
The way he stands makes my skin crawl. It reminds me of how Stan looked back at the mansion. The way I must have looked too. Trapped in Clo’s grip, waiting for her to pull the strings.
Then Stan speaks. “Visor up, mystery man.”
The biker lifts his gloved fingers to his helmet’s visor and pushes it upward to reveal his gaze and the brown locks of his hair framing his blue eyes, catching the moonlight like glass.
Chills crawl under my skin. A flicker of memory forms. Fire scorched my skin. In my mind, I hear a shaken voice I can’t place and feel a hand reaching for me through the red. But, just as quickly, the memory vanishes in a blurry blink.
My chest aches. I can’t breathe. It feels like I’m still in the remnants of that memory, taking in smoke. Behind me, Sterling tightens his hold around my middle.
Several feet in front of us, Stan interrogates the intruder. “Who the hell are you?”
The biker lifts his eyes. “I don’t have a name,” he says, voice flat and frighteningly familiar. “I’m a number. Fifty-nine.”
A colder chill skates down my spine. Sterling’s mouth is right by my ear. “LIX,” he murmurs. “Fifty-nine in Roman numerals.”
Stan narrows his gaze. “You go by a number?”
“I’ve been called Lix.”
Stan lets out a low whistle. “So you’re Lix, huh?”
The biker doesn’t answer or react in the slightest. But I study him. I’m staring at those sea-glass eyes. His auburn hair. My mind pulls at those threads of memories, hoping they don’t fray and rip apart. My pulse spikes as pieces gather to the surface of my mind.
Stan paces a slow circle around the biker. “Alright, Lix, you gonna tell me why you’re here? Or are you one of those quiet types who only speaks in riddles and grunts?”
The biker moves his head slightly. The stars glint off the visor of his helmet. Then, without a word, he reaches into his jacket. I tense, my breath halting. Sterling’s arm coils protectively around me.
But instead of another weapon, the biker pulls out a card. Black and gold-trimmed. He holds it out between two fingers.
Stan raises a brow. “What’s this? A love letter? That’s bold, man. I like a guy with confidence.”
The biker doesn’t respond. But Stan takes the card, flips it over, and looks at it with a frown.
“Charity gala,” Stan reads. “Classy. Subtle, too. Real impressive delivery method. A biker with a tommy gun. Nothing says RSVP like showing up armed.”
Then the biker speaks. His voice is deeper this time, smoother. “It’s not for you.”
Stan’s brows lift. “No?”
The biker turns his head, barely an inch. “It’s for…Elle.”
My name in his voice twists in my stomach. It doesn’t feel right, doesn’t sound right.
Stan, unshaken, smirks. “You got the broody thing down, I’ll give you that. Do you come with your own tragic backstory?”
Lix blinks slowly. “I was told to deliver the card. I delivered it.”
“And what? Now you vanish into the night like some sexy, mysterious messenger?” Stan shrugs. “Honestly? I’m kind of into it.”
Lix turns, walking back to his bike. I step forward. I need to see more. I need to know more about him. But Sterling’s arms are wrapped around my waist like iron.
“Don’t, Elle. Stay.” I freeze at the firm sound of Sterling’s voice. “It’s not safe.”
I feel the beat of his heart rattling my spine. Sterling’s bracing, holding me back. So I stay still, but my fingers dig into his forearm.
“Not so fast, Ocean Eyes,” Stan calls from across the way.
Lix turns his head.
“You bring anything else with that invite?” Stan asks. “Pills, maybe? Bottle of Kys to keep you compliant?”
Lix doesn’t blink. “I was told to deliver the card. That’s all.”
Stan’s voice lowers. “She gets in your head, doesn’t she?”
Lix responds quietly. “I don’t remember anything else right now. I don’t want to.”
Those words in that voice sinks deep. I recognize that numb clarity, that hollow certainty. It’s the same fog I used to walk through before I remembered how to feel again.
Stan must see it too. He steps forward with more care now. “You did your part,” he says. “Giving Elle that card was the job. That’s all. You don’t have to do anything else.”
Lix doesn’t answer. But I see the slow blink. The way his body turns toward Stan again.
Stan places a hand on Lix’s shoulder. “Why don’t we sit someplace for a while? I’ll keep you company.” He smirks. “You look like you’ve been through it. Hell, I’ll even let you stare at my face for a bit. Free of charge.”
Lix doesn’t give a reaction. But he also doesn’t walk away.
Right behind me, Sterling whispers, “He’s stalling him.”
I nod. “He’s distracting him.”
“He’s risking everything,” Sterling adds, and there’s a tremor in his voice he doesn’t try to hide. “For you.”
“For us,” I whisper back.
He doesn’t say anything else. But he lowers his face into the curve of my neck and holds me tighter, arms banded around me like he won’t let me go.
Like I’d ask him to at any point soon. I’d stay here forever if I could.
And so I stay right here, still grounded in Sterling, and listening to Stan carry the moment with nothing but his charm and that impossible grin. It’s working.
“You ever do anything besides brood and reload?” Stan asks casually. “Or did Clo pull you out of her lab, slap some Kys into ya, and program you to look hot and homicidal?”
Lix tilts his head again, a twitch in his brow.
Stan grins. “C’mon, you’re cute. You can laugh.”
Lix’s gaze drops to the card Stan is still holding.
“Oh, this old thing?” Stan tosses it over his shoulder without looking. It flutters through the air and lands in the dirt. “Oops.”
And then, so casually it looks like a stretch, Stan lifts one arm behind his back and adjusts his shoulder. A flick of two fingers follows.
“Stan’s signaling,” Sterling whispers. “He’s taking the target off-site.”
Out in the clearing, Stan keeps talking. “You like bikes, Lix? I’ve got one better than that squeaky thing you rode in on.” He turns toward the other end of the woods. “C’mon, let’s ride.”
Lix stays still. “What if I’m not allowed to leave?”
Stan leans in a little. “You already left. Just not far enough yet.”
He taps Lix’s chest once lightly. Right over the heart. And like a miracle, Lix follows. One step and then another.
Stan leads them toward the trees, too far from us to hear clearly what he’s saying about s’mores for dinner and demanding more tattoos on pretty boys.
But I stand there, shivering in Sterling’s arms, in shock and awe. Stan’s walking off with a stranger in a helmet and a gun, taking the danger with him like it was his to carry away.
Just before they vanish, Stan tosses one last wink over his shoulder. Something slips from his pocket. It lands quietly in the grass.
The other item left behind is the fallen invitation, only a few feet away after the breeze brings it closer to where Sterling and I are hiding.
There’s a letter written in perfect loops in the center. L. In dark, dripping red. Superstitions, like the number four. A name in red means death.