Chapter 40
RUE
Forty-eight hours.
That’s how long it’s been since I slammed the door to that spare bedroom, locked Bill’s horrific secrets inside, and refused to look back. We haven’t spoken of it since. We essentially shrunk our entire world down to the kitchen, our bedroom, and the equipment shed out back.
And strangely, in that confined, terrifying space, we found something that feels a lot like peace.
I sit at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of Bill’s terrible coffee, and watch the late afternoon sun bleed through the gaps in the blinds.
I take a deep breath, realizing for the first time in over a week that my head doesn’t throb when it’s quiet.
The lingering fog of the concussion has finally lifted.
Even Noah is healing. The deep, painful-looking purple bruises on his torso are fading to a dull yellow, and the bullet wound on his bicep has officially scabbed over, the angry red edges turning a healthy, healing pink.
Bullet lets out a soft, happy sigh in his sleep, his back paws twitching like he’s chasing rabbits in his dreams. He’s been living his best life chasing grasshoppers and birds, like he’s just a puppy.
Seeing him act so spry gives me a reckless, foolish kind of hope. We’re actually going to make it. All three of us.
The floorboards creak behind me, and Noah steps into the kitchen. He’s wearing his worn jeans and a gray T-shirt, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead. The harsh, guarded lines of his face have softened entirely over the last two days.
And he shaved.
He walks up behind my chair, leaning down to press a warm, lingering kiss against the side of my neck.
“You ready to get your hands dirty?” he murmurs against my skin, sending a familiar, heavy shiver straight down my spine.
I tilt my head back, catching his pale blue eyes. “I think I’m getting pretty good at it.”
He chuckles, a deep, rich sound that I could listen to for the rest of my life. “Yeah, you are. Let’s go see if we can finally get that carburetor seated right.”
Ten minutes later, we are in our sanctuary. The heavy corrugated steel door of the barn is pulled shut behind us, locking the rest of the world away.
The air smells heavily of old diesel, dust, and the sharp tang of fresh motor oil. I stand on the opposite side of the vintage Harley Knucklehead, my hands already stained black with grease, holding a flashlight perfectly steady so Noah can see what he's doing.
He’s completely laser-focused, his good arm working a wrench with practiced precision.
“You know,” I say softly, the quiet clinking of the metal echoing in the large space. “I was thinking about the beach.”
Noah pauses, wiping a streak of oil from his forehead with the back of his forearm. “Yeah? What about it?”
“I was just trying to picture it. The town we're going to find.” I lean against the workbench, keeping the light trained on the engine block. “I think it should have white houses. The kind with the flat roofs and the terracotta tiles. And a little market we can walk to.”
Noah’s lips curve into a small smile. He reaches out, takes the wrench, and adjusts a bolt. “A market, huh? What are we buying?”
“Fresh fruit. Fish. Maybe some cheap beer,” I say, a genuine smile breaking across my face as the fantasy takes shape in the dark barn. “And nobody is going to look twice at us. We'll just be the American couple who wanted a quiet life by the water.”
He stops working entirely, resting his hands on the leather saddle of the bike. He looks at me across the machine, his expression so open and vulnerable it makes my chest ache.
“You really want that?” he asks, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “A quiet life with me?”
“More than I’ve ever wanted anything,” I answer, holding his gaze without a single ounce of hesitation. “I want you, Noah. Just you.”
The air between us thickens, charged with an undeniable, electric pull.
Noah steps around the back tire of the bike, closing the distance between us in two long strides. He doesn't care that his hands are covered in grease, and neither do I. He cups my face, his thumbs gently sweeping across my cheekbones as he leans down and kisses me.
It’s not the frantic, desperate collision we had in the rafters, or the harsh, punishing heat of the stolen SUV. It is slow, deep, and profoundly tender. It’s a promise.
When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against mine, our breaths mingling in the dusty air.
“I'm going to get this bike running, Rue,” he vows quietly, his pale eyes blazing with absolute certainty. “And I’m going to take you to that beach. I swear to God.”
I wrap my grease-stained arms around his waist, holding him tight against me, entirely convinced that the nightmare might actually end in a daydream.
Or something like that.