Chapter 21
"I can't believe he's really gone." The words come out too quiet, like I'm testing if they're true.
Finn appears in the doorway holding two mugs that don't match. "He's gone. And if he's smart, he'll stay gone." He hands me one—the tea smells like burnt grass but I take it anyway.
I laugh. It comes out wrong, too high and breathless, like my body hasn't caught up to the fact that it's over.
Holt stops pacing. Just stops mid-step and kneels in front of me, eye level, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his blue eyes. My breathing slows. The wild spinning in my head quiets.
"You did good."
"I was terrified."
"I know." His voice is quiet, certain.
My throat goes tight. "I don't feel brave. I feel like—like I almost let him pull me back into that fear. When he grabbed me, I almost froze."
"But you didn't," Finn says from where he's leaning against the doorframe.
"No." I flex my hand, feel the soreness in my wrist. "No, I didn't."
Holt's gaze drops to my wrist. The red marks stand out against my skin—finger-shaped evidence that Evan was here, that he touched me. Holt's jaw tightens so hard I hear his teeth click.
"He hurt you."
"Not like he wanted to. Not like he used to be able to." I turn my wrist over, studying the mark. "This is nothing compared to what he did to my head."
Finn moves into the room, sits in the armchair across from us. His eyes are serious for once. "What did he used to do? Like, day to day?"
I take a breath. This matters, saying it out loud.
Making it real. "He'd go through my phone.
Make me explain every text, every call. If I didn't answer fast enough he would backhand me.
He'd just show up wherever I was. My office, the grocery store, coffee with friends. He'd walk in like it was normal."
"That's fucked up," Finn says flatly.
"He'd tell me what to wear. Say my dresses were too short, my shirts too low. Even when they weren't. Especially when they weren't. He'd pick out my clothes in the morning, lay them on the bed like I was a child who couldn't dress herself."
Holt's fists clench. I watch his knuckles go white.
"He made me text him every hour when I was at work. Prove I was where I said I'd be. If I forgot, or if I was in a meeting, he'd call my office line. Over and over until I answered." The words keep coming. "At the time, I thought he cared. Thought he was protecting me from something."
"He was controlling you," Holt says, and there's something dangerous in his voice.
"Yeah." I meet his eyes. "Took me way too long to see it. Took running away in a wedding dress to finally understand what he was."
Finn runs a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Scout."
"I know." I do know. Now. "But I'm out. I'm here. And he can't touch me anymore."
The room goes quiet except for the ceiling fan clicking overhead. Finn stretches, stands up, and I know what's coming before he says it.
"I'm gonna head out. Give you two some space."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." He grins, but it's softer than usual. "But I'm going to anyway. Besides, I need to call Maeve. Tell her you're okay."
"Tell her thank you. For showing up."
"Will do, Gremlin." He claps Holt on the shoulder as he passes. "Take care of her."
"Always."
The door closes behind Finn and suddenly it's just us. The quiet settles in—not uncomfortable, just full. Holt's still kneeling in front of me, close enough that I can smell motor oil.
"Thank you." My voice cracks. "For stepping in. For not letting him—"
"You don't have to thank me."
"Yes, I do. You could've been hurt. Evan could've—"
"He couldn't." Holt's voice is flat, certain. "I've handled worse."
I look at him—really look. His knuckles are bleeding. Split skin across three of them, blood dried dark in the creases.
"Your hand."
He glances down like he's surprised it's attached to him. "It's fine."
"Let me see."
I stand before he can argue, go to the tiny bathroom, and come back with the first aid kit. It's bigger than you'd expect—Finn's paranoid about shop injuries—and I kneel on the floor in front of Holt this time, taking his right hand in both of mine.
"Scout—"
"You're always taking care of me." I open an antiseptic wipe, careful not to meet his eyes yet. "Let me do this for you."
He goes quiet. Lets me clean the cuts, his hand steady even when the antiseptic must sting. I work carefully, learned from watching him patch me up that first week when I sliced my palm on a fender. His knuckles are messed up—old scars layered under fresh splits, skin that's seen too many fights.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Liar."
His mouth twitches.
I wrap gauze around his knuckles, tape it down, efficient because I've seen him do this a hundred times. When I'm done, I don't let go. Just hold his hand, feel the calluses and warmth and realness of him.
"I meant what I said. I choose this. I choose here."
"I know."
"I choose you."
Holt's breath catches. I hear it, feel it in the space between us.
"Scout—"
"I love you."
The words just slip out. Not planned, not dramatic—just true. I realize I've said them as they're leaving my mouth, and for a second I freeze, waiting for him to pull away or tell me it's too soon or—
Holt stares at me like he's not sure he heard right.
"Say it again."
I'm crying now, smiling through it. "I love you, Holt Ward."
He cups my face. His thumbs brush away tears that won't stop coming, and his eyes are so blue it hurts to look at him. There's no walls there, no armor—just him, looking at me like I hung the fucking moon.
"I love you too." His voice is rough, scraped raw. "So much it scares me sometimes."
I laugh through the crying. "Me too."
He kisses me slow, deep. When we pull apart, I rest my forehead against his.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Good." His hands are still on my face, warm and steady. "Because I'm not letting you go."
We move upstairs and settle on the couch with my legs draped over his lap.
His thumb moves against my ankle. Back and forth, absent, like his hands need to be busy.
My eyes are getting heavy. The exhaustion is bone-deep but good—the kind that comes after using every ounce of courage you have and coming out the other side intact.
"Come on." Holt's voice is soft. "Bed."
I steal one of his t-shirts, brush my teeth, wash the dried tears off my face. When I climb into bed, he's already there. I curl around him, my head on his shoulder, his arm pulling me close.
"Today was insane."
"Yeah."
"But we made it."
"We did."
I yawn. The words come out quiet, easy. "I love you."
Holt's arms tighten around me, his lips brush my temple. "I love you too."
Sleep pulls at me. My body's already sinking into it, warm and safe and home. I'm not afraid of what tomorrow brings. Because whatever it is, I'm not facing it alone.
I'm home. I'm loved. I'm free.
And that's everything.