Chapter 9 Salem
NINE
SALEM
By the time we make it back to Rainmaker, my skin is pink from the cold and my teeth are one shiver away from falling out.
Ozzy’s barely wet anymore. He’s the kind of man whose body seems to run hotter than everyone else’s, like he’s powered by spite and caffeine and the promise of violence for people who deserve it.
Me?
I look like a drenched rat who lost a fight with a creek.
“I’m fine,” I announce the second we step onto the porch, mostly because I can feel his eyes on me, cataloging every tremble like it’s a code he’s trying to crack.
Ozzy opens the door and gestures me inside. “You’re shivering.”
“I’m… vibrating with joy.”
He snorts, and that little sound does something to my chest. It still surprises me how quickly my body believes him when he laughs. Like it hears it and goes, Oh. We’re allowed to be human right now.
The safehouse greets us with warmth. Soft lights. That clean antiseptic smell. The quiet hum of heat through vents. It’s calm in a way that feels almost suspicious, like peace is a trap that snaps shut when you relax.
Ozzy toes off his boots and glances at me. “Go change. Hot shower. Or I’m going to start a fire.”
“In the fireplace?” I ask.
“In the world,” he says, dead serious.
I pause, looking at him.
He holds my gaze like he means it, like he’s already made a promise to whatever deity handles vengeance.
My throat tightens. I hate the way my eyes sting at the edges. “Okay,” I whisper, because I’m not going to cry over warmth and concern and a man who treats my safety like it’s his religion.
I head toward the bathroom, stripping off wet clothes like they’re guilt. My muscles ache in a way that feels good. Like a way that reminds me I’m alive. I turn on the water, waiting for it to heat up.
I stare at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing me. I’ve lost probably ten pounds of weight I couldn’t afford to lose. There’s a few fresh bruises that have bloomed across my back. Probably from the escape. Probably from not having the right nutrients.
Ugh. I hate the men who took me.
My minds wanders to the other women who were there. So many lives lost to the underbelly of this trafficking ring. I want to find them. Free them. And then burn that building down to the ground.
I step into the shower, letting the hot water scald my skin.
It feels so good. My body comes alive as I think about Ozzy.
So big and strong. The mohawk and neck tattoo do it for me.
Who knew I’d be into that sort of thing.
But it’s more than that. It’s not just about the way he looks. It’s about the way he makes me feel.
Safe. In a way I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. Sure, I was safe living with my drunk mother. Or was I?
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this safe in all of my pathetic excuse of a life.
I wash up, rinsing the conditioner out of my long dark hair, and shut the water off. I step out, pulling a towel around my body and glance at myself once more in the fogged mirror. First things first, we need to buy some makeup. Some skin lotion. Things that will make me feel more human.
I tug on dry leggings and a sweatshirt from the duffel Juno gave me.
As I’m pulling my hair into a messy bun, my mind flashes backward—creek laughter, water splashing, Ozzy’s hand bracing me when I slipped. The way he moved like his body didn’t even ask permission.
Protective.
He’s all protectiveness. All instinct. All I’m here.
And the thought that I needed him last night slams into me again. The nightmare. The thrashing. Me waking with panic clawing my throat, whispering his name like it was a prayer. I press my palms to my face, mortified all over again.
Get it together, Salem.
You are not a damsel.
You are not a helpless girl.
You are—unfortunately—a woman with feelings and a nervous system that apparently has decided Ozzy Oliver is Safe Person Number One.
Which is… annoying. And kind of terrifying. Because safe people can leave. Safe people can become unsafe. Safe people can die.
I step out into the hallway, forcing my shoulders back, chin up. Normal. Fine. Just a woman living her best life in a hidden safehouse because the world is garbage.
Ozzy’s in the kitchen, towel around his neck, hair damp again—apparently he rinsed off too—leaning over the counter like he’s studying something.
When I get closer, I see it’s a notebook. A literal notebook with a pen.
I stop short. “Is that… paper?”
Ozzy looks up, eyes flicking to my face with immediate attention. “Yeah.”
“Are we… writing in the ancient ways?”
He grins. “We are. Because it’s harder to hack paper.”
I step closer, intrigued despite myself. “What are you doing?”
Ozzy taps the pen against the page. “Making your list.”
“My list?”
“Your list,” he confirms, like he’s explaining something obvious. “Things you’ve never done before.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because you’re going to do them,” he says simply with a shrug to his shoulders.
My stomach flips, and it’s not hunger this time. I glance at the notebook. At the top, he’s written:
SALEM’S LIST (NO EXCUSES EDITION)
Underneath are a few bullet points already:
Creek day (repeat, with snacks)
Movie night (with popcorn)
Coffee and hot chocolate concoction
Skate spot / board situation
“Coffee and hot chocolate?” I ask.
“Don’t knock it until you try it.”
I nod, lips curving into a small, dangerous smile, then let my gaze drag to the very last item. Our eyes lock. My heartbeat hammers loudly in my chest. “Board situation,” I say, my voice lower than I mean it to be.
Ozzy’s mouth gives the tiniest twitch, the corner lifting in that way that always feels like a dare. “That’s… a very technical term.”
“You’re adorable,” slips out before I can catch it. It’s soft, unguarded, and almost fond.
He freezes. Just for a heartbeat. Then something shifts in his stare: the playful glint hardens into something darker, hungrier. Heat coils behind his pupils like a lit fuse.
My pulse kicks hard against my throat. My cheeks burn. I hate how easily he does that to me. I wrench my eyes away first, force a scoff, fall back into the familiar armor of sarcasm because if I don’t, I might do something reckless like climb across this table.
“So,” I say, tapping the notebook a little too sharply, “you’re out here making me a fucking bucket list like it’s no big deal.”
His gaze doesn’t leave my face. If anything, it drags slower now—down my jaw, my throat, back up—like he’s memorizing every place my skin flushed. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice rougher than before, “keep calling me adorable and I might start thinking you mean it.”
The air between us feels thinner. Hotter. Like the next person to speak is going to be the one who breaks first.
I swallow. Tilt my head. “Would that be so terrible?”
His eyes flare. He leans in one slow, deliberate inch. “Keep talking like that,” he says quietly, “and we’re gonna find out.”
I straighten my posture and try to push away all the attraction I have for this man. Because that would be dangerous, right? My life isn’t all sparkles and sunshine. Girls like me don’t deserve love. We don't really deserve any of this. “So, this bucket list…”
“It’s a mini one,” he corrects. “Not, like, ‘skydiving’ unless you want to.”
“I do not want to skydive,” I say immediately. “I’m already done with falling.”
Ozzy’s expression changes, the humor dimming. He nods slowly. “Okay.” He says it like he hears the weight behind it. Like he knows that wasn’t a joke.
The silence stretches.
I clear my throat. “Also, I’m not some tragic charity project.”
Ozzy leans back against the counter, pen still in hand. “I know.”
“I mean it,” I press, because something in me panics when people are kind. Like kindness is always a prelude to being owed. “I’m not—”
“Salem,” he interrupts gently, and my name in his mouth is grounding. “I’m not doing this because I feel sorry for you.”
I stare at him, suspicious.
He holds my gaze. “I’m doing it because you deserve a life that isn’t just survival.”
My throat tightens again. Damn it. I swallow hard. “Okay.”
Ozzy nods once like that’s settled. Then he gestures toward the notebook. “What’s something you’ve never done?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Because the list is… long. And saying it out loud feels like admitting my childhood was emptier than I let myself believe.
Ozzy watches me. He’s so patient. Not pushing.
So I grab a stool and sit, wrapping my hands around a mug of hot tea he must’ve made earlier. The warmth seeps into my fingers. “I grew up poor,” I say finally, voice flat like I’m describing the weather.
Ozzy’s eyes soften. “I know.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Not the cute kind of poor where you have ‘character’ and ‘grit.’ The kind where you learn how to sleep through hunger because it hurts less than being awake.”
His jaw tightens. Anger flashes across his face. It’s quick and controlled, but it’s there. Like he can’t hide it. He’s angry. At the world? I don’t know. Maybe.
I keep going, because now that I’ve started, it’s like a dam cracking. “My mom… she wasn’t mean,” I say carefully. “Not always. She just… didn’t have anything to give. Not attention. Not affection. Not stability. She had men. Always men. A revolving door of men.”
Ozzy’s knuckles whiten around the pen.
“And when she picked a man,” I continue, “the rest of us had to fit around him. If I didn’t fit, that was my fault.” My chest aches with old resentment. Then I push it down. Because it’s easier to love someone when you don’t look too closely at the ways they failed you.
Ozzy nods once, slowly. “And Carl?”
My stomach twists at the name. “Carl,” I confirm, voice turning harder. “He’s… a creep.”
Ozzy’s gaze sharpens. “Tell me.”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “It’s not… a specific thing. It’s the way he looks at me. The way his eyes linger. Like he’s thinking about… ownership.”
Ozzy’s face goes very still. He doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then he says quietly, “I’m having Dean run his background.”