43. Rowan
ROWAN
Justin opens the wardrobe and pulls out a small duffel, the kind used when a person doesn’t plan to be gone long. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him pack, my hands folded in my lap, my body too still.
There’s a rhythm to it. Efficient. Purposeful. A man who knows exactly what he needs when things turn dark.
His clothes first. They’re dark, practical. Then the smaller things—charger, a comb, some cash folded into the inner pocket. He doesn’t look at me while he does it, and somehow that makes my fear spike.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say finally.
He pauses, just for a fraction of a second, then keeps moving. “I do.”
I swallow. “This isn’t your fight.”
That makes him stop. He turns then, slow, deliberate, eyes finding mine like he’s searching for something.
My chest tightens as he tells me they’re close to cracking this wide open. Close enough that the pieces are finally lining up, that names are turning into faces and hiding places are running out.
And all I can think is that none of this would exist if I hadn’t ended up on his doorstep.
There wouldn’t be a trail to follow. No men being hunted down in the dark. What happened to my sister would have stayed buried under paperwork and polite silence, filed away as something unfortunate and unfixable.
The fact that they’re chasing every lead—every man who had a hand in that night, no matter how small their role—does something to me that I can’t put into words. It hurts. It steadies me. It cracks something open in my chest that I didn’t realise had calcified.
For the first time, it feels like what was taken from us matters enough for the world to answer for it.
Justin’s jaw tightens. “We have a lead on the third man. We believe the driver was Dean Stockton’s son.”
The room tilts slightly.
“He’s Scott-Evans’s cousin,” Justin continues. “He’s been in hiding for years, but we’ll find him.”
I close my eyes briefly. The pieces slide together with a sick, seamless logic.
“That makes sense,” I say. “I never saw him. He stayed in the car. Someone was driving that car, but I never saw his face.”
Justin steps closer. “We’ll find him.”
My voice drops. “This is my fight, Justin. Missy’s fight. I won’t drag you into it.”
He reaches me then. Takes my face in his hands, firm but careful, thumbs warm against my jaw.
“You didn’t drag me anywhere, Rowan. This became my fight the moment you became part of me.”
My breath stutters.
“I don’t do halfway,” he continues. “I don’t stand at the edge while the person I love bleeds in the middle of it.”
The word spreads through me like warmth, slow and consuming, igniting something I didn’t realise had gone cold.
“I will stop at nothing,” he promises softly, “to give you the closure you need. And Missy the justice she deserves.”
Something in me breaks open. Not loudly. Just enough to hurt.
I lean into him, my forehead pressing against his chest. He smells like soap and steel and the kind of calm that only comes from being a very dangerous man.
“By morning,” Justin’s voice is low against my hair, “this will be over.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise you this. I’m going to do everything in my power to make those animals pay, then I’m going to come home to you.”
Home.
He cups the back of my neck, grounding me. “But I don’t want you alone tonight. Bethany and Lily are staying in the guest rooms. They won’t hover, but they’ll be here, keeping you company.
Gratitude floods me so fast it almost knocks the air out of my lungs. “Thank you.”
He nods once.
The quiet stretches. The house feels different now—tense, but held. Like it knows something is about to happen.
Justin leans down and kisses me.
It’s not hurried. It’s not gentle either. It’s deep and grounding and full of restraint that’s already wearing thin. My hands fist in his shirt. His breath changes. I feel it in the way his body responds, the way he presses closer like he wants to climb inside my skin and stay there.
“Stay,” I whisper, even though I know he can’t.
His mouth leaves mine. His forehead rests against mine. His hands slide to my waist, grip hard enough to make my knees weak.
“If I don’t leave now,” he growls roughly, “I won’t.”
The moment hangs there—raw, electric, dangerous.
His phone vibrates. Once. Twice.
He closes his eyes. Swears under his breath. Pulls the phone out like it physically pains him to break contact.
Silas’s name lights the screen.
Justin answers immediately. “Silas.”
I don’t hear Silas’s voice, but I hear the shift in Justin’s body. The way everything inside him snaps into focus.
“Send the coordinates. We’re on the way.”
He ends the call and looks at me, really looks at me, like he’s committing my face to memory. Like this moment matters more than the words he hasn’t said yet.
“This is it,” he tells me. “Silas found him.”
I nod, even though my chest feels too tight to draw a full breath and my hands have started to shake. I push them into his shirt, needing the contact, needing to feel something solid before he goes.
“Justin.” My voice catches despite my efforts to keep it steady. “Promise me you’ll stay safe,” I whisper. “That you won’t do anything reckless.”
His expression softens in a way that almost breaks me. He lifts my hands and presses them flat against his chest, right over his heart.
“I promise I’m coming back to you, Rowan.”
The words settle into me, warm and terrifying all at once.
He leans down and kisses my forehead one last time, like a vow rather than a goodbye. Then he pulls away, grabs the bag, and turns for the door before I can ask for more than he can give.
I watch him leave.
And I know—whatever happens next will change us forever.