Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Adalynn
For an hour, we trailed his bike in tense silence.
The car’s engine whines, struggling to keep pace, sounding like it’s about to sputter and die.
My palms are slick against the steering wheel.
I keep glancing from the road to the fuel gauge, watching the needle crawl toward empty.
We’re running on fumes, and I’m worried we won't make it much further.
I can’t stop myself from checking the rearview mirror, but the road behind us is empty.
Dodge’s motorcycle is just a black speck ahead, eating up the miles with an ease that makes our struggle feel even more pathetic.
I don’t know who this man is, but I’ve just handed over our lives to him, and the knot in my stomach is tightening with every passing mile.
Are we safe?
Or are we just trading one nightmare for another?
I look back at the kids—Noah is curled into a ball, his thumb in his mouth, while Amelia stares blankly out the window.
Carter sits shotgun, his hands gripping his knees so hard his knuckles are translucent.
He hasn’t said a word since we left the gas station not far from the rest stop where we filled up.
We're all just waiting for the other shoe to drop. I floor the pedal, trying to keep up, praying this car that’s been running on a hope and a prayer doesn't quit on us now.
The engine gives out, shuddering into silence.
For a long moment, nobody moves. We just sit there, paralyzed by the crushing exhaustion of the last few days.
I can hear the kids’ guarded breathing in the back, still waiting for the sky to fall.
My body feels like it’s made of lead. I force myself to unbuckle, fingers fumbling with the latch, and step out onto the gravel.
My legs are stiff and the ground feels unsteady beneath my feet.
We shuffle forward like we’re sleep deprived, gravitating toward Dodge and the woman from the patio.
He’s got a protective arm slung around her shoulders, and she’s beaming with a warmth that feels completely out of place in our world.
Seeing him like this, unguarded and human-like, instead of the insufferable asshole he’s been since we bumped into each other sets my nerves on edge.
I grind my teeth, wanting to trust in the promises he made and we need, but my heart’s stuck in survival mode, waiting for the trap door to spring closed, boxing us in.
Noah and Amelia press hard into my sides, their small frames trembling.
Carter shifts to my left, putting himself between us and the two people standing before us.
He keeps his gaze sternly fixed ahead, standing rigid as if he’s guarding a dragon’s treasure.
Watching him accept that load rips me apart.
He’s just a teen who should be obsessed with his GPA or finding a date, not scanning for killers.
Witnessing him step into harm's way like that is agonizing.
He doesn't belong here, trapped in this life, forced to be our line of defense.
“Y’all stop,” Dodge commands, rolling his eyes and sighing. “Nobody here is going to hurt you.”
“We don’t know that for a fact,” I interject, sounding miffed. “We just literally met you and you took charge of our lives, Dodge.”
“Son,” the woman scolds. “What is she talking about?” When Dodge remains silent, his eyes boring into me, she steps out from under his arm and moves forward with a warm smile, holding out her hand. “I’m Miranda, this one’s mom.”
Reaching around Carter, I extend my hand and shake hers. “I’m Adalynn.” Pointing to each of them, I introduce everyone to her. “This is Carter, Amelia, and Noah.”
“Welcome to my home,” Miranda kindly says.
She jabs a finger toward Dodge, shaking her head.
“Don't mind him. He's always taken control and runs roughshod over everyone, just like his father did.” When his dad is mentioned, pain flashes in Dodge's eyes.
It's clearly a sensitive subject. I intend to steer clear of it unless he decides to bring it up.
“I know we’re a huge surprise and uninvited guests, but thank you for opening your home to us,” I say, offering a small, tight smile.
“If my boy brought you here, you're welcome. Come inside and I'll get some food on the table for you. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over,” she says, her gaze sweeping over us.
“Go on in,” Dodge encourages, gesturing toward the patio with a tilt of his head.
He doesn’t wait for an answer, already moving toward the trunk of our rusted-out sedan.
His presence is still a heavy, unsettling weight, but there’s a strange, quiet competence in the way he handles the situation.
“Carter, you wanna help me grab y’all’s stuff?
We need to get this car hidden before someone starts asking questions. ”
Carter hesitates, his gaze flicking between me and the biker.
I give him a small, shaky nod, and he finally steps away, joining Dodge at the back of the car.
Watching them together, the massive man in his leather cut and my fourteen-year-old brother striving to carry a man's burden, is surreal. Miranda rests a warm, grounding hand on my arm. “Come on, sugar. Let’s get them inside. I’ve got a pot of stew on the stove that’ll put some color back in those cheeks. ”
I trail her up the steps but glance back one last time.
Dodge and Carter haul our few bags toward the house while the sun dips below the horizon.
My lungs finally open up, the heavy weight of the last few days lifting.
I haven’t a clue what the future holds or if this house is just another brief pause in our flight, but the quiet, open countryside is all the comfort I need—for now.
We file into the dining room. I pull out a chair and sit, scanning the room and taking in every detail.
The table is solid oak, worn smooth by years of use, and it feels achingly familiar.
Deep scratches and white water rings mark the finish, telling stories of a home that’s known plenty of life.
A knot forms in my throat. It drags me right back to our kitchen in Colorado.
I can almost see my parents sitting there, laughing over burnt toast and lukewarm coffee.
That life is gone now. It’s buried under the weight of everything we've lost, and sitting here in this stranger's house, the ache is almost too much to bear. I keep my head down and stare at my plate, waiting for the stew, terrified that if I look up, the tears I’ve been fighting will finally spill over.
“I’ve got cornbread in the oven that’ll be out in a minute or two,” Miranda states, her voice gentle and soothing as she places a silver ladle on the table.
She nods toward our bowls, her expression softening into something motherly that makes my chest ache.
“Don’t you wait on that, though. Go ahead and start eating before the stew cools off. ”
I look down at the spoon in my hand. It feels foreign, like I’ve forgotten how to act like a normal person in a normal house.
The scent of rosemary and slow-cooked meat is intoxicating, filling the room with a richness that makes my mouth water, but my stomach is twisted into a painful snarl.
Beside me, Amelia reaches out, her hand hovering near the ceramic bowl as if she’s afraid it might vanish if she touches it.
It’s impossible to reconcile this warmth with the nightmare we’ve been sprinting away from for days.
Carter doesn’t touch his food. He’s still too tense, his eyes scanning the corners of the dining room as if he expects a threat to materialize from the shadows.
I nudge his knee under the table, a silent plea for him to let his guard down.
We have to play the part. We have to act like we’re just another family sharing a meal, even if every bite feels like a betrayal of the parents we lost. I pick up my spoon, forcing a smile that doesn't reach my eyes, and take a hesitant bite.
The warmth spreads through me, but it doesn't touch the ice that’s settled deep in my bones.
Dodge leans back, offering her a rare, soft smile.
It's a side of him I haven't seen, and it throws me off balance.
“Smells incredible, Mom,” he says, his tone losing that dangerous edge he usually uses.
The tough biker vanishes for a second, replaced by a son just looking for a simple meal.
I keep my gaze on my bowl, wondering if he even remembers how to just be a regular guy when the patches come off.
“I knew it was your favorite so I made it especially for you,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
She reaches across the table to pat his forearm, her touch lingering there for a beat.
Dodge doesn't pull away. He just lets out a quiet, relaxed exhale that seems to deflate the tension he’s been carrying since we arrived.
It’s a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the leather, and it feels like I’m seeing something I wasn’t meant to witness.
I turn my attention back to my own bowl, suddenly feeling like an intruder in this private moment.
We don't belong here, sitting in the middle of a family meal prepared with love by a mother for her son.
Miranda and Dodge keep chatting, but their voices are just background hum.
I can't catch a word of it. I'm fighting to keep my hands steady, forcing myself to swallow a spoonful of stew even though my throat feels swollen shut. A hand suddenly slides into my peripheral vision, placing a steaming square of buttered cornbread that’s placed on a napkin right next to my bowl.
I flinch, my reflexes jerking my body back as if he had struck at me.
Dodge is standing right there, his eyes unreadable as he studies my reaction.
I feel the burn of shame creeping up my neck.
I look up, locking eyes with him, and realize how transparent I am. I force a stiff, fractured nod.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice raspy and thin.
“You’re welcome,” he replies, his tone flat.
He stays where he is, still watching me, clearly waiting for me to bolt.
It feels like he is testing me, watching to see if I will pick up my spoon or dive for the door.
I drag my gaze back to my bowl, counting the carrots just to keep from screaming.
He lingers for another heartbeat before finally walking back to his seat, leaving me to wonder if he is the protector he claims to be or just another threat I haven't learned how to dodge yet.
The stew is thick and savory, soothing me with every bite.
As my bowl empties, the icy numbness that’s been trapped in my chest finally begins to thaw.
It’s a terrifying shift. I’ve spent days sprinting on pure adrenaline, and now that I’m forced to sit still, the crash is coming hard.
Noah’s head is bobbing, his eyelids fluttering as he struggles to stay conscious.
Amelia isn't doing much better. Her spoon clatters against the ceramic bowl, her movements slow and lethargic. Even Carter, who’s been holding his spine like a rod of iron, is finally letting his guard slip.
His shoulders drop, just a fraction. We’re full for the first time in days, and the warmth of this house is dragging us under.
I try to stay alert, to keep watching the door and the windows, but my own vision is swimming.
The fight is leaking out of us, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that feels impossible to outrun.