1. PROLOGUE #3
"Shhh," I soothed, rubbing circles on his back until he settled again.
My eyes felt like sandpaper. How long had it been since I'd slept? Really slept, not the hypervigilant dozing I'd managed while living under the same roof as Tyler. Days? Weeks? Exhaustion pulled at me, but fear kept me wired, jumping at shadows.
The phone lay silent on the nightstand. No further messages from Pretty Boy. No reassurance. Just the vague promise that help was coming.
I shifted carefully to ease the cramping in my arm without waking Dante. My gaze swept across the dismal room—the water stains on the ceiling, the ripped lampshade, the mysterious dark spots on the carpet. This was rock bottom. This was what desperation looked like.
Yet somehow, in this filthy motel room with its smell of despair and failure, I felt the first real flicker of hope I'd had in years. We were free. Not safe yet, but free. And that was a start.
The muffled sound of another car door slamming made me tense again. I held Dante closer, my eyes fixed on the thin strip of parking lot visible through the gap in the curtains, waiting for whatever came next.
My back screamed from sitting in the same position for hours, spine pressed against the headboard, Dante's weight heavy across my lap.
I hadn't dared to move him, hadn't dared to sleep.
The thin curtains no longer blocked out the world outside—a faint grayish light seeped through, signaling the approach of dawn.
Morning meant exposure. Morning meant they'd discover we were gone. My time was running out.
I gently shifted Dante beside me, my muscles protesting as I stood and stretched.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror stopped me cold.
A ghost stared back—pale face, dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes, hair tangled from running nervous fingers through it all night.
I hardly recognized myself. Twenty years old and looking twice that, worn down by fear and hypervigilance.
My hands trembled as I splashed water on my face. The tap sputtered, producing a rusty stream that smelled faintly metallic. Everything in this place was broken, used up. Like me.
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. I wasn't broken. Bent, maybe. Scared, definitely. But not broken. I couldn't afford to be.
I returned to the window, carefully parting the curtains just enough to peer out. The parking lot lay empty except for my car and two others. The sky had lightened to a dull pewter, stars fading as dawn approached. No sign of motorcycles. No sign of help.
Had Pretty Boy's plan failed? Had the Wicked Mayhem members meant to help us run into trouble before they could reach us? Or worse—had Tyler somehow intercepted the message? The thought sent a chill through me.
My stomach knotted with hunger and anxiety.
I hadn't eaten since yesterday's lunch, too nervous about our escape to manage dinner.
The vending machine I'd spotted outside the office beckoned, but I couldn't leave Dante alone, even for a minute.
Couldn't risk stepping outside when Tyler's men might be watching.
I checked the burner phone again. No new messages. I thought about texting Pretty Boy but stopped myself. He'd said to wait. To trust him. But as the minutes ticked by, my faith wavered.
What if this was all a mistake? What if I'd torn Dante from the only home he'd known, only to end up hunted, homeless, hopeless? At least with Tyler, we'd had security. Food. A roof. At least my parents, for all their coldness, had provided financial stability.
I shook my head violently. No. That line of thinking was a trap—the same one that kept women returning to their abusers.
The bruises on my ribs had barely faded from Tyler's last outburst. The memory of glass shattering inches from Dante's head was still fresh.
Any price was worth paying for our freedom.
A sound in the distance broke through my thoughts. Faint at first, then growing—the distinctive rumble of motorcycles. Not just one or two, but several, their engines a growing thunder on the pre-dawn air.
I froze, ears straining. The sound approached steadily, growing louder until the vibration seemed to travel through the floor and into my bones. This wasn't just a couple of bikes passing by. This was a convoy.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Wicked Mayhem. Had to be. No one else would travel in force like that at this hour.
Dante stirred on the bed, the noise penetrating his sleep. His eyes fluttered open, confused and still heavy with sleep.
"Mommy? What's that sound?"
I crossed to him quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed and smoothing his hair. "Just some motorcycles, baby. Nothing to be scared of."
"Like Uncle Pretty Boy's?" he asked, the rumble already exciting him more than frightening him.
"Yeah, like Uncle Pretty Boy's." I forced a smile. "Listen, Dante. Some people are coming to help us. They might look a little scary, but they're friends of Uncle Pretty Boy. They're going to take us somewhere safe, okay?"
He nodded solemnly, too young to fully understand but old enough to sense the importance of my words. "Are they the good guys?"
Such a simple question. Were they good guys?
Pretty Boy ran with an MC that had its hands in all sorts of illegal activities.
Wicked Mayhem probably wasn't any different.
But they were coming to help us when no one else would.
When the system had failed us. When "good guys" like Tyler's police chief uncle had turned a blind eye to abuse.
"They're on our side," I said finally. "That's what matters."
The rumble outside reached a crescendo, then began to cut out as engines shut off one by one. I counted silently—one, two, three, four. At least four bikes. My body tensed with each thunderous silence.
Car doors slammed, too. They hadn't all come on motorcycles. Voices filtered through the thin walls—male, gruff, indistinct. Boots on gravel. Movement outside our door.
I stood, gathering Dante into my arms. "Remember what I said. They're friends."
He nodded against my shoulder, small arms winding around my neck. I could feel his heart beating, rabbit-quick, against my chest. Or maybe that was mine.
I glanced around frantically. Should I change? Fix my hair? The thoughts were absurd, yet instinctive—my mother's training to always be presentable running deep even now. But these weren't country club members coming for brunch. These were bikers coming to save our lives.
Instead, I checked the room quickly, making sure our meager belongings were gathered. The duffel by the door. Dante's dinosaur clutched in his hand. My jacket within reach.
The footsteps stopped outside our door. A pause. Then three sharp knocks.
This was it. The moment we'd put our lives in the hands of strangers. I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders despite the weight of Dante in my arms, the weight of exhaustion, the weight of fear.
"We can do this," I whispered, more to myself than to Dante. "We have to."
Another series of knocks, more insistent this time. I crossed to the door on legs that felt like they might give way any moment. My hand hovered over the knob, trembling slightly.
Everything I'd ever known—my family, my home, my identity—lay behind me. Everything uncertain—safety, future, survival—waited on the other side of this door.
For Dante's sake, I turned the knob.