My Girl to Shelter (Wilder House #1)

Prologue

Wilder

Nine years ago

A guard stops outside my cell and raps his knuckles once against the bars.

“Tate.”

I look up from the bunk, already on my feet. He doesn’t need to say more. He never does. His eyes flick down the tier, then back to me, a silent question wrapped in procedure.

“Johnny is asking for you.”

My heart drops to my stomach, but I keep my expression neutral, nodding once.

No rush. No hesitation either.

I slip my boots on and lace them tight, like muscle memory alone can keep everything else locked down. The guard opens the door and steps aside.

The walk to the medical wing feels longer than it should be.

I try to ignore the chaos around me. Concrete floors.

Fluorescent lights that hum too loudly. Doors slamming.

Men shouting. Somewhere down the block, someone laughs like they’ve forgotten where they are.

Prison keeps moving no matter what’s ending inside it.

The medical unit is quieter. Time passes differently here.

Johnny is propped up when I walk in, thinner than he was yesterday, skin stretched tight, eyes sharp despite the rest of him failing. Tubes snake out from under the thin blanket. The monitor beside him beeps slow and steady, like it’s counting down instead of keeping score.

“Well,” he says, voice rough but amused. “You made it. Figured they’d drag their feet.”

I step closer and stop where I always do…close enough to protect him if I need to, far enough not to crowd. Old habits die hard.

“You called,” I say. “I came.”

He smiles at that. Small. Satisfied.

That’s how it’s always been between us. Few words, but tight with meaning.

Johnny Tulane isn’t my blood, but he’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a family.

We met because the system stuck us together—an old drunk serving life and a seventeen-year-old kid too angry to know what to do with it.

He taught me how to read legal texts like they mattered.

Told me stories about neighborhoods that looked like mine.

Warned me where alcohol had taken him, and where gangs would take me if I let them.

He made me believe I could be more than what I was when I was first locked behind these metal bars.

“You ready?” he asks.

I don’t ask for what. We both know.

“As if I’ll ever be.”

He exhales slowly, eyes drifting to the ceiling.

“I told ‘em no more treatment. Figure I’ve spent enough time being told where to go and what to do.”

I nod again. My jaw tightens, but I keep my face still. Maintaining control is the only thing that’s ever been mine.

“You did good, kid,” he says. “Got your GED. Those classes. Social work.” He lets out a weak chuckle. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“You’re the one who pushed me.”

“And you’re the one who listened.”

The machine beeps. Once. Twice.

I step closer now. Close enough that if someone tried to touch him, they’d regret it. Old instinct. He notices and smiles faintly.

“Promise me something,” he says.

“Anything.”

“Don’t waste it. Whatever comes next for you…don’t burn it down just because you don’t think you deserve it.”

My throat tightens. I swallow.

“I won’t,” I say. “I swear.”

His eyes find mine, steady and knowing. Like he can see past the walls. Past the bars. Past the version of me that walked in here in chains. He always has.

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

His breathing slows. The monitor stretches the space between beeps. I stay where I am, fists clenched at my sides, spine straight, holding the line even when there’s nothing left to fight.

Johnny’s eyes flutter close.

The monitor soon goes quiet.

For a long moment, I don’t move. Don’t breathe. I stand there until the guard clears his throat and gently touches my shoulder.

“It’s time, Tate.”

I nod once. Step back. Turn away.

I don’t look back.

Somewhere deep in my chest, something breaks, but I keep walking. Because that’s what he taught me.

Control.

And I won’t waste it.