Chapter Thirty-Six
Helios
Flying past my second Florida Highway Patrol, hoping like hell the trooper was one of the guys I knew, I slowed down.
Eighty-five feeling fucking sedate compared to what this bike could do, I glanced in my rearview.
The FHP Charger’s lights flashed.
Tapping my helmet in a fucked-up reverse acknowledgment for biker speak, I sped back up.
Twenty minutes later, stripe-riding between traffic a few miles from the house, I was checking both directions at an intersection when I saw her.
Fucking running. Way past dark.
Braking hard, I spun the Ducati around. Horns blared, and I hit the throttle.
Coming up on her six, slowing down to twenty, then eight miles per hour, watching that ass I’d know anywhere, I paced her and fucking stared.
Not that I had to look twice to know it was my Haven.
Height, weight, gait, hair color, outfit. I knew every damn thing about the woman, right down to her trainers. This pair she used for distance.
I also knew why the fuck she was running so goddamn late when she preferred mornings.
Her fucking anxiety.
She hated being out at night unless she was with me or Ares. She’d hated it for eight fucking years. At least a few times a month, I made her go somewhere with me after sundown because she fucking needed to. Unlike Ares, I didn’t take the talk-shit-out route with her. I took action.
Desensitization, conditioning, overbearing, cruel, I didn’t care what the fuck anyone called it, the woman needed to know she could step foot into the world without shit going FUBAR.
So that’s what I did. I took her out.
In the Cessna, on the Ducati, her car, mine, grocery store runs, bullshit shopping. Eating out, which she hated. Fucking jogging, which she loved and I hated. I did it all, and I did it for her.
Ninety percent of the time, she fucking hated it. Nine percent of the time, mostly on the Ducatis—but sometimes when I got her past her fear of flying long enough to get her in the Cessna—her breathing would go full throttle, but then it’d even out, and I knew she was in the zone.
But that final one percent?
When I took her to the beach—not the countless fucking times we hit up the stretch in front of the house during the day—when I took her at night, let her walk as far as she wanted, when her body lost that tension and her face softened, that shit was my peace.
That version of Feralyn was my haven.
Seeing her relaxed, no bad shit crawling around in her head, that was my fucking refuge from this whole goddamn world.
I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t always my haven, but a content Feralyn was my fucking kryptonite. It was also the reason I didn’t take her to the beach every goddamn night. Shit would’ve gone south with my control a long damn time ago if I had.
But watching her run full sprint at twenty-two thirty, miles from the house, down a street with traffic, had me fucking cursing myself.
Clocking her speed, noting the earbuds, taking in her sweat-drenched running outfit, I watched her ignore every damn thing I’d taught her about situational awareness. Oblivious to the headlight and horsepower on her six, the woman was gonna drive me to an early grave.
Then she took a fucking corner without checking traffic and almost got taken out.
The oncoming car slammed on the brakes and swerved.
Not breaking stride, she ran past.
I lost my motherfucking patience.
Revving the throttle enough to flank her, holding the bike steady, I grabbed her around the waist.
She screamed.