60
W yatt and I stare at each other through the wire. “Go,” he shoves at me, his tone urgent. “Get the fuck out of there.”
I shake my head, swimming through dizziness. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Fallon, damn you.” Desperation rises in his eyes. “You have to leave.”
“I will never leave you,” I tell him. “Not again. Not ever.”
The muscles in his jaw tick as he glares at me. I glare back, refusing to give in.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Wyatt’s spine straightens. His eyes burn with tears. “I don’t want you hurt.”
I interlace our fingers. I look down at the tattoo on my finger, a symbol, a reminder that we’re in this together. That he has always been in it with me, even though I couldn’t see it at the time.
I’ll never stop fighting for us.
Never.
I’ll die before I let anything happen to him.
Quietly, I adjust my cuffs so they look like they’re latched. “Listen, I’m going to do something, okay? So just…play along.”
“Remember what I said,” Wyatt orders, sticking the ring of keys into his pocket for later. “I go first.” His eyes blaze. “Fucking remember that. I go first, Fallon.”
I smile, baring my teeth and leaning in to kiss him through the wire. “Guess what, asshole? Not a damn chance.”
“If you die, Fallon”—his voice shakes; his eyes shutter—“I’ll never forgive you.”
I grin. “You think I’m a menace in real life, just wait ’til I’m dead.”
“Fuck you,” he rasps.
“I love you,” I say, and Wyatt makes a strangled kind of noise in his throat.
Tripp appears at the bottom of the stairs. His face darkens when he sees Wyatt and I locked in an embrace.
“I didn’t bring you here for romance,” he growls. “Move away from her.”
Wyatt snarls, holding tighter to me.
Anger turns behind Tripp’s eyes. “I’m not asking,” he says, pulling a gun from his right hip.
Shit.
We’ll have a hell of a fight on our hands with a gun.
Grimly, I back away from Wyatt. That dark look on Tripp’s face fades as he nears my prison. The metal of my cell door screeches. The veins in his neck bulge in a way that tells me he’s losing it.
“You look angry,” I say.
“You think this is easy? Watching you with him.” Tripp’s shaking, his face as red-hot as his voice. “That was supposed to be my job. Taking care of you, that’s why I did this. So that we could be together without distractions. Without anyone keeping us apart.”
Tripp slams a hand against the cage, causing Wyatt and I both to jump. “And then you go and marry him. Him ?”
I arch a brow. “You sound jealous.”
A muscle bounces in his jaw. “I’ve always been jealous of whoever has you.”
My stomach plummets when Tripp turns the gun on Wyatt.
“Don’t.” I ball my fists, vibrating with rage. Panic. “Don’t hurt him.”
“What if I do?” No inflection to Tripp’s voice. He jabs the barrel of the gun against the metal of the cage. Instead of flinching, Wyatt stares him down.
I bite back an angry remark. Anger won’t work here.
I think fast. I have to do this right. I can’t fuck it up. I have to get Tripp to forget about Wyatt and focus on us.
Us.
I can use that. To get Wyatt and I out of here.
Never once have I shied away from a bull, a bronco. The last thing I will do is cower to a man. Another man who only wants what isn’t his. Who wants to take. To hurt.
Fuck that. I win.
“If you do,” I say quietly. “I—I won’t like you anymore.”
Tripp’s face changes. “You like me?” He sounds dubious.
I scoff. “Of course. You’re an idiot for not seeing it.” I rove my gaze around the cage. “For stooping this low. Really, Tripp. I expected better.”
Both Wyatt and Tripp gawk at me.
I almost smirk. Tripp looks like a begging dog with his tongue out.
Tripp clears his throat. “I didn’t know.”
I school my face into innocent neutrality. “You never asked, did you?” I chuckle. “We never got to talk. Like really talk. Pappy was always around.”
“Yeah.” Tripp licks his lips. “That asshole.”
“He really fuckin’ was.” I smile. “An asshole.”
Tripp and I share a laugh. I try not to bristle as he steps into the cell. Wyatt’s ring on his finger sends a visceral reaction through my body. I want to throw up.
“We can talk now,” Tripp says.
I shiver. Force myself to avoid looking at Wyatt. I can feel his stare boring into me. “We can. What about?”
“Wyatt. You married him.” Tripp sounds wounded.
“You think I love him?” I laugh, gesturing toward Wyatt, hating myself.
“I’m using him. For insurance, Tripp. You think I could afford it myself?
” I bite my lip. “You know what it’s like.
You and I, we grew up together. Survived in this shitty Podunk town.
We weren’t born with silver spoons in our mouths like him. ”
All my focus is Wyatt.
Nothing else.
Tripp drops his arm. The gun dangles loosely in his grip. Wyatt’s burning gaze tracks us.
Keep talking. Keep talking to get us out of here.
“I wish…” I tilt my head, swallowing the bile in my throat. Force a sweet smile. “I wish you had just asked me out or something. We could have avoided all this mess. But it’s not too late, you know.”
Tripp takes a step closer. He reaches out to cup my cheek. “It isn’t?”
I lower my lashes. “No. We could go away together. Wild horses. Sunshine.”
Tripp’s stare is glassy. I can’t tell if he’s buying my bullshit. “Yeah. We could.”
I step into him. At the sweep of my breasts against his chest, his breathing speeds up. His eyes close.
A wicked grin tilts my lips when I see it. My cane. Resting against the workbench in the basement.
I don’t want flowers. I want knives.
Knives.
I step closer, and then I gasp. My leg gives out. I collapse to the floor.
“Fallon.” Tripp kneels beside me. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
I rest my hand on his shoulder. “My leg.” I shake my head. “It’s really killing me.” I point at the cane. “Do you think—”
Tripp’s nodding now, sticking the gun in his front waistband. “Yeah.”
Without another word, he turns and sprints for the workbench.
Quietly, I let the cuffs slip off my wrists. No longer tethered to the chain.
“ Fallon .” Wyatt’s whisper is urgent. Worried.
My attention zeroes in on his handsome face.
Our eyes unite.
He’s seen my deepest secrets, my scars, and he’s loved me through it all. I know he’s killed and he’s hurt and he’s the best person I have ever known. He’s the man I belong with, the man I love, and the man I won’t lose.
I’ve hated the last two years more than I can count. But for the last two months, I have loved fiercely, and I am not ready to let it go.
Never.
“Don’t,” Wyatt gasps. His face is screwed up like I’m killing him. Good. Because if anyone kills him in this life, it’s me.
His wife.
I have to , I mouth back.
I’ve been in this exact position before. Trapped in a room with a man.
But Tripp’s also a man who’s trapped in a room with me.
I’m feral, and I’m ready to rage.
I’m done waiting.
It’s not happening again. Not to me or Wyatt.
“Here,” Tripp says, returning with the cane. He hands it over, not noticing the development with my lack of cuffs.
Wyatt stands at the cage, tense, his face pale and locked on me.
“Thank you,” I rasp, remaining crouched. My first wraps tight around the gold handle, grip firm, ready to swing.
Swing .
The fortune teller’s voice enters my head.
But when you finally face death, you swing.
My nine lives. They’re up if I don’t time this right.
All that’s left is survival.
This time, I win.
I. Fucking. Win.
Holding my breath, I depress the button on the side of the cane.
Click.
Tripp, across from me, tenses. Hitches a breath. Fear in his eyes. “Fallon, wait, where are your—”
Letting out a guttural scream, I throw all my weight into my legs and spring up. My stance is shit, but I swing high. The end of the cane, the blade, slashes across Tripp’s right arm. He screams. I lunge again, drilling my shoulder into his. Tripp and I topple through the cell door.
We hit the ground so hard I suck air in through my teeth. My cane clatters, sliding across the floor to lodge itself under a shelf.
Fuck.
Wyatt’s shout rings in my ears, echoing against the plaster walls of the basement.
Adrenaline floods my system. I push myself up on my hands and knees. I grapple, blindly searching for my cane, only to be violently yanked back. A hand twists in my hair, jerking me onto my back.
Eyes wild, Tripp looms over me. The skin on his shoulder is open and blood streams down his shirt. “You fucking bitch!” he howls. “I love you!”
“Fuck. You,” I scream.
He backhands me across the face. Pain flies into my jaw and creeps into my temple. My vision blinks in and out. I go limp.
Wyatt screams and slams his hands against the wire, rattling the cage so hard I feel its vibration from the floor.
Before I can get my bearings, there’s weight on top of me. Tripp’s on his knees, straddling me. And then his hands wrap around my throat. “I don’t want to do this, Fallon,” he whispers. “But I will.”
I kick my boots, buck my hips, trying to free myself from Tripp’s hands.
Can’t scream. Can’t breathe. My body feels numb. My lungs burn. Pinpricks fill my vision. Quiet all around me.
Death’s in the air.
You swing.
Nine strikes, and you’re out.
The veins in Tripp’s throat bulge as he squeezes tighter. “All you had to do was love me.”
Tears leak from my eyes. Faces flash in my mind.
Dakota. My father. Lovely and Lawless.
Wyatt .
Wyatt and the home we’ve made for ourselves these last four months.
Mine. I’m not letting it go.
Darkness.
A voice whispering in my ear. Swing .
Then a thunderous roar fills the air.
Tripp’s suddenly slammed across the room. The absence of his weight on my chest has me gasping for relief. I moan as consciousness fully comes back to me.
A cacophony of noise breaks through the sound of blood rushing back into my head. Trying harder to breathe, to think, I roll onto my side. My eyes widen.
Wyatt.
Hands around Tripp’s throat, he slams him back against the wall. “You piece of fucking shit,” Wyatt seethes, lifting a fist. “This is for touching my fucking wife.”
The sound of bone on bone.
I wobble to my feet, steadying myself on the wall.
Before Wyatt can swing again, Tripp moves back and pulls the gun from his waistband. I catch Wyatt’s eyes in the dimness of the room. There’s no fear in his eyes, only rage.
A sob cracks my scream in half. “NO!”
But he doesn’t fire. Instead, Tripp turns, whipping his head my way.
I lunge for my cane. Miraculously, my hands close around the handle.
Screaming. It’s all screaming in my head. A wild howl of rage that sucks me in and keeps me there.
You swing.
Swing, Fallon.
And I do.
This time, the cane connects.
I slice the end of the cane against his stomach and growl, “Fuck you, motherfucker.”
There’s a terrible tearing and squelching sound. Tripp’s body stiffens. A strange gurgling comes from his mouth. The gun hits the ground with a clatter.
In awe, horror, I watch as moist, red intestines spill from his gutted torso. Mouth gaping, he stares at me and then looks down at himself.
Again, Fallon.
I step forward, driving the end of the cane deeper into Tripp’s stomach. More squelching noises. Blood runs down the cane onto my hands, my arms. Tripp slumps to the ground, his mouth wide in shock.
I hold the cane there, impaled in Tripp’s stomach, until my chest aches, until my hand’s numb, until the light in Tripp’s eyes dies out.
“Put it down, Fallon.” Wyatt’s deep, urgent voice drills into my ear. “Baby, put it down.”
Blinking, I let go of the cane and jump back.
Breathing hard, Wyatt kneels beside Tripp’s body. Jaw clenching and unclenching, he slips off his wedding band and puts it back on his own finger. His face is dark. He could burn up the Earth with the fire in his eyes.
“Piece of shit.” He kicks Tripp, casting a withering glare at his dead body. “You fucking piece of shit.”
Pain sinks its teeth into my hip, my leg, as I slowly limp my way to Wyatt. I reach up to touch his temple. “You’re bleeding.”
He pushes at my clothes, searching for my injuries. “I don’t care where I’m bleeding, are you all right?” Wyatt traces my burning throat with trembling fingers. Tears line his eyes. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
Wetness on my cheeks. A sob escapes me as my defenses start to crumble.
“C’mere. C’mere, baby.” Wyatt crushes me to his chest. Trembling and bone cold, I melt against him. Then my legs give out.
“I have you.” With that, Wyatt picks me up, looping one arm under my back and another under my knees. I rock in his arms as he climbs the steps.
Wyatt’s breath rattles, his heart pounds in his chest. Exhausted, I hook my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder. Blood on my face, tears on his. I can’t let him go.
We fought for our lives. Fought for each other.
We step out the front door. Cool night air hits us.
“Holy shit,” Wyatt rasps, his deep rumble vibrating through my chest.
I sit up in his arms and gasp. It’s my street. We were in Tripp’s house, just yards away from mine.
The screech of tires fills the air.
“Cops?” I wonder aloud.
Wyatt grins. “It ain’t the cops.”
Then, out of the wilderness, out of the night, come the cavalry. Three pickup trucks fishtail wildly into the driveway. Davis and Charlie and Ford.
Brothers. Cowboys. Help.