Dalton
Hampton, Virginia
I don’t remember the last five turns I made, only that I made them too fast. The engine growls as I push my Jeep Wrangler harder than necessary, my grip tight enough on the steering wheel that my knuckles ache.
Ivy’s still on the phone, her breathing uneven in my ear—quick, shallow inhales she’s trying and failing to steady.
“I’m almost there,” I tell her again, forcing my voice low, controlled. Calm. She needs calm.
“I closed the shades,” she says, words trembling. “I locked the door.”
“Good,” I murmur. “You did exactly right.”
My pulse is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
There’s a particular kind of fear that sharpens everything—the kind that narrows your focus until nothing exists except the objective.
Get home. Get to her. Make sure she’s safe.
I turn onto my street too fast and immediately start scanning. Every parked vehicle. Every shadow. Every movement. No blue Honda.
My jaw tightens anyway as I pull into the driveway parking beside Ivy’s white Audi.
“I’m here,” I tell her, already out of the truck before the engine finishes idling down. “Stay inside until I get to you.”
The front door opens as I reach for it.
Ivy stands in the doorway, phone clutched in one shaking hand, the other wrapped tight around her ribs like she’s trying to hold herself together. She’s still wearing the strappy black leotard, little skirt, and tights. She hasn’t even removed her pointe shoes.
She looks…terrified.
Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, chest rising and falling too fast. There’s color high in her cheeks but the rest of her looks pale, fragile in a way that sends something dangerously close to panic clawing up my own spine.
“I don’t see it,” I say gently as I step inside, closing the door behind me and automatically sliding the deadbolt into place. “Where was it?”
She points toward the window, her hand trembling so hard she can barely hold it steady.
“Across the street. Two houses down,” she whispers. “It was right there.”
I move toward the window but keep the shade closed, just lifting the corner enough to scan the curb.
Nothing.
Just Mrs. Alvarez’s silver sedan and the empty stretch of asphalt beyond it.
No blue Honda.
I lower the shade again and turn back toward her.
Her breathing is getting worse.
Too fast. Too shallow.
Her fingers are curled into the fabric of her leotard, twisting the material tight.
“Ivy,” I say softly, stepping closer. “Hey…look at me.”
Her gaze lifts but it’s unfocused, caught halfway between here and somewhere far away I can’t follow.
Her chest stutters with a sharp inhale that doesn’t seem to go anywhere.
Shit.
“Okay,” I murmur, closing the distance slowly so I don’t startle her. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”
Her head shakes once, quick and helpless.
“It was there,” she insists, voice thin and fragile. “I know it was.”
“I believe you.” I keep my tone steady, certain. “I believe you.”
Her eyes finally lock onto mine.
That’s good. That’s something.
“Can I touch you?” I ask quietly.
She nods immediately.
I reach for her carefully, sliding one arm around her waist and the other across her upper back, pulling her gently against my chest. She folds into me like she’s been waiting for permission to fall apart.
Her hands clutch the front of my flight suit, fingers fisting tight in the fabric.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, guiding her gently against my chest. “Just breathe with me, Ivy. Nice and slow.”
Her breath stutters again, hitching on the inhale.
I press a soft kiss to the top of her head without thinking, the gesture instinctive. Protective.
“You’re okay,” I repeat quietly. “You’re right here. Nothing’s going to happen to you here.”
Her body is trembling.
“In through your nose,” I coach softly, keeping my voice even. “Slow…slow…there you go.”
I exaggerate my own breathing just enough for her to feel the rise and fall of my chest where she’s pressed against me.
“Out through your mouth.”
Her fingers tighten once, then loosen slightly.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Stay with me.”
Her breathing starts to match mine after a few seconds, still uneven but less frantic.
“I thought…” She swallows hard. “I thought maybe I was imagining it but then it was here again and I just—”
“You didn’t imagine anything,” I say firmly. “You saw something that didn’t feel right and you called me. That’s exactly what you should have done.”
Her forehead presses lightly against my collarbone as she nods, another shaky breath leaving her.
“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” she whispers.
The quiet admission hits harder than anything else.
My arm tightens around her just slightly.
“You won’t feel like this forever,” I tell her gently. “I know it doesn’t seem that way right now, but you won’t.”
Her breathing continues to slow, the sharp edge of panic gradually dulling.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
“Hey,” I say softly, leaning back just enough to look down at her. “None of that.”
Her eyes are still glassy but more present now.
“You don’t ever apologize for calling me,” I continue. “Not for this. Not for anything. You hear me?”
She nods again, more firmly this time.
“Good.”
I brush my thumb lightly along her arm.
“We’ll keep an eye out,” I say. “I’ll try to get in touch with Kyler. And I’ll talk to Logan. But right now? You’re safe.”
Her shoulders finally start to relax under my hands.
“Do you want to sit down?” I ask.
She hesitates, then nods.
I keep an arm loosely around her as we move toward the couch, not letting go completely until I’m sure her legs aren’t going to give out on her.
She glances once more toward the window, unease flickering across her face.
“It was right there,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I reply calmly. “And now it’s gone.”
For now, I don’t add.
Instead, I reach for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch and settle it gently around her shoulders.
“I’m here,” I remind her softly. And I don’t move away.