Chapter Fourteen
Connor
Even in sleep, she looked fragile, too fragile, her breaths coming in uneven little hitches that made my chest ache.
I knew that rhythm by now, the one she used to calm herself.
Four in, seven held, eight out. It was stitched into her bones, a survival mechanism she couldn’t seem to shake even when she was safe.
Safe.
The word mocked me as I hovered at the edge of the bed, my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides.
She wasn’t safe yet. Not when whatever was haunting her was still out there. Not when her past still clung to her like a shadow, dragging her down every time she tried to breathe freely.
Her whimper cut through the silence, soft but sharp enough to carve straight through my ribs. My sweet girl flinched in her sleep, her fingers twitching against the sheets like she was trying to claw her way out of a memory.
I wanted to wake her, to pull her into my arms and promise her that nothing could hurt her anymore, not while I was here. But I didn’t. She needed rest more than she needed me smothering her with my rage.
Her journal sat in the living room, its cover frayed at the corners like she’d opened it a thousand times and then slammed it shut twice as hard. I needed to understand. I needed to tear apart whatever was hurting her and feed it its own fucking heart.
The first time I read this notebook, I didn’t see anything that stood out. But I had only skipped to the last few pages.
Fuck, I should’ve read it more carefully.
The first page was innocent enough, with lists and schedules written in handwriting so small it looked like she was trying to hide the words even from herself.
But as I flipped through the pages, the tone shifted.
Her neat cursive grew messy and frantic, spilling across the paper in lines that screamed of desperation and pain.
He called again.
My pulse thudded in my throat as I read those first three words.
Three voicemails. “I miss you.” “You owe me.” “Answer, you ungrateful bitch.”
I deleted them. Deleted the number. Again. But the area code follows me like his voice, still trapped in my head.
My grip on the journal tightened until my knuckles turned white. The words blurred slightly as my vision tunneled, but I forced myself to keep reading.
He’s not even my real dad. Just the man who married Mom when I was six, the man who taught me that silence was safer than speaking.
A fucking stepfather. A stepfather did this. The pages answered horrifically in her looping script.
He threw my books onto his grill when I asked for supplies. “Wasting your time,” he’d slurred. “Girls like you end up on their backs, not in classrooms. ”
He taught me that silence was safer than speaking, that if I just stayed quiet enough, small enough, maybe he wouldn’t notice me.
His friends came over sometimes. They’d leer at me while I snuck to my room, their laughter slimy. “Gonna be a heartbreaker,” one said when I was fifteen. He’d just smirked. “Already is.”
Violence coursed through me.
I wanted to kill him.
I needed to kill him.
Slowly and painfully, with every ounce of fury coursing through me.
My fists itched for blood as images of what he must have done to her filled my mind: his voice booming through their house, his hands gripping too tight, his smirk as he watched her shrink smaller and smaller under his gaze until there was nothing left but fear, silence, and survival instincts wrapped up in a sweater too big for her frame.
The journal slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a dull thud that didn’t wake Sierra, but even if it had, what would I have said?
That I’d invaded her privacy? That I’d read every word of her pain because I couldn’t help myself?
That every single entry made me want to destroy the world so that she’d never have another reason to pick up a pen and bleed onto paper again?
I never would have hired those paparazzi to take those photos outside the library if I’d known she had such cruelty in her life. Someone who was waiting for the right moment to break her.
I crouched beside her bed, brushing damp curls away from her forehead with a touch so gentle it felt foreign, even to me.
“Sweet girl,” I murmured under my breath, watching as her lips parted slightly in sleep but gave no response beyond the steady rhythm of breaths that she clung to like a lifeline.
Then she whimpered again, and I instantly calmed her. “Shhh,” I murmured. “I’m here. Nothing’s going to hurt you.” She didn’t stir further when I pressed a few kisses against her temple.
But he was still out there.
Calling .
Haunting.
Breathing .
He'd already hurt her. In ways I can’t punch, stab, or strangle out of existence.
My fingers trailed down to her wrist, feeling her pulse.
Now, I know better. Now, I can help her heal. An entry I skimmed came back to mind.
Sometimes, I still feel small.
She’d never feel small again. Not while I breathed.
I reached for her phone, unlocking it with the password she’d openly typed in front of me many times. I dug through it, sifting through hundreds of Pinterest saves in her gallery, until I had the fucker’s name and number.
I sent it to Jax and Adrian with three words:
Connor
Find this fucker.
I slipped back into her bed after that, pulling Sierra’s body against me with an arm wrapped securely around her waist. I let myself breathe for what felt like the first time all night. Toffee slept quietly at our feet, and I had to be careful not to kick the fur ball.
Tomorrow would come soon enough, with all its plans for vengeance, but tonight belonged entirely to keeping Sierra safe. And she would be, with me at her side.
The first streaks of dawn turned the sky blood-orange when I shook Sierra awake, my hand cupping her cheek gentler than I’d handled anything else before.
Her lashes fluttered open, confusion swimming in those sleep-soft eyes before they focused on me.
“Mm…?” she mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion. She was so fucking cu te.
“We’re relocating,” I said, brushing a curl from her forehead. No room for argument. Not when Jerry Franklin’s name glowed on my phone like a target.
She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist, and blinked at the duffel bag by the door, already stuffed with her cardigans, including the bee one. It also had the stuffed sheep she’d had in her bed, and Toffee’s carrier was waiting by the door, the cat glowering from inside, tail lashing.
Her gaze darted to the closet, which was mostly empty now.
“Did you… Pack my things?” I could listen to her sleepy voice forever.
“We’re going to my penthouse.” I handed her the travel mug of chamomile tea, which I’d steeped exactly the way she liked it.
“Safer. Quieter. Better security.”
She sipped, her nose scrunching adorably at the pound of honey I'd added in there. “But work…?”
“I called you in sick.” My thumb swiped a drop from her lip, bringing it to my own. “Told Jones you’ve got the flu. He said to rest up.”
It was a lie. Jones had actually muttered about “young people and their weak immune systems,” but had shut up when he’d realized who was on the other end of the phone.
She opened her mouth to protest, to question, but I pressed a finger to her lips, hushing her.
“Dress comfortably.”
I’d already laid out her clothes: soft leggings, an oversized sweater, and wool socks. She dressed slowly, sleep-clumsy and adorably disoriented. I packed her toothbrush, face creams, and the journal I’d carefully resealed.
Toffee yowled as I zipped the carrier fully closed, his paw batting at the mesh. “Hush,” I murmured, sliding a treat through the gap. “Or I’ll trade you for a goldfish.”
Sierra shot me a look, equal parts irritation and fondness. “He doesn’t like carriers. ”
“He’ll like my penthouse less,” I muttered.
Bare, floor-to-ceiling glass, nothing to claw at but thousand-dollar curtains. I’d let her buy whatever she wanted to make the space hers once I’ve settled her in.
The Audi idled outside, sleek and warm. I had already placed Toffee’s things in the trunk. I figured he’d need his litter box, scratching items, and cat things.
I bundled Sierra into the backseat, tucking a blanket over her lap and placing Toffee’s carrier next to her. I figured she’d want to sit next to the little rascal.
Her fingers knotted in the fabric, anxiety radiating off her in waves. I counted with her, my palm resting on her knee before sliding into the driver’s seat.
My phone went off, Jax and Adrian:
Jax
Jerry’s got a rap sheet longer than my dick. DUIs, domestic battery.
Adrian
His girlfriend is 25 y/o. Pray for his back?
My knuckles whitened as I squeezed the wheel. Sierra is 23.
Adrian
Already gassed up the blow torch.
Jax
I’ll bring the scotch.
I typed at a red light, glancing in the rearview to watch Sierra as she dozed.
Connor
Track him, find his patterns. I want him isolated.
Jax
Or we could just waterboard him in the ocean?
Jax’s smartass owned a fucking beach house-mansion.
Adrian
Oooh, bring your snorkels. Sounds fun.
Sierra stirred, her head tucked against the cushions I’d placed against the headrest. “Where’re we going?” She’s forgetful when she’s sleepy, cute.
“Home.”
Our home.
The penthouse was dark, with cold granite and sharp angles. The private elevator opened with a hum, revealing a living room with a few leather sectionals.
Sierra stepped inside, hugging herself. I led her in by her back, watching her pretty eyes widen.
“It’s… empty.”
“You’re the warmth, sweet girl.”
I let Toffee out and unzipped her duffel, pulling out the sheep and setting it on the leather sofa. It was absurd how something so childish could soften the room.
“Do you have flowers? Food anywhere?” She was suddenly alert, watching Toffee parade around.
“No. It’s empty in here, cat safe. I promise.” Her anxiety was so sweet sometimes, the way she worried over the simplest things.
She wandered to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at the city sprawled below with awe. I wrapped my arms around her from behind, my chin resting on her head.
“You’re safe here,” I promised into her hair, breathing in my sweet girl’s scent.
My phone buzzed again, and I checked it with my chin on her head:
Adrian
Apparently Jerry visits strip clubs on Tuesdays.
Jax
I’ll bring the cash.
I tucked the phone away, focusing on how Sierra’s wide eyes focused on the view. It was a relief that she liked it. It all belonged to her now.