Chapter 8 #2
"I know your name." I say it without buildup. She deserves directness, not a speech. "Your real name. Halstead."
Her face goes blank. Not empty—locked.
Every muscle controlled, every expression suppressed, the mask she built for exactly this moment slammed into place.
She's been rehearsing this reaction her whole life. Waiting for the person she cares about most to say the name and watch his expression change.
I don't let my expression change.
"The club ran a background check." I keep my voice even. "Standard procedure for anyone in our orbit. Krypton pulled it."
She doesn't speak. Her arms are crossed so tight her knuckles are white against her elbows.
"Your father's crime isn't yours, Saylor."
She flinches. Not from the name. From the sentence. Like the words hit a nerve she didn't know was exposed.
"You don't—" She starts, stops. Swallows. "You don't know what he did."
"I know exactly what he did." I hold her gaze. "And I'm looking at you right now, and I don't see him. I see a woman who changed her name and built a life, and sits in the back row of every room she enters because this town taught her that being visible means being punished."
Her arms loosen by a fraction. Her chin drops.
"I see someone who got dealt a hand she didn't ask for and played it without complaint, and I'm not going to stand here and judge you for your father's sins because I know what it feels like to carry someone else's."
Her eyes are wet. She's not crying, not yet, but the surface is breaking and what's underneath is raw, terrified, and so tired of holding it together.
"Everyone finds out." Her voice is barely above a whisper, rough with the effort of keeping it level. "And everyone looks at me differently. Every single time."
I step closer. Close enough to touch, not touching yet. "I'm not everyone."
Not loud. Not dramatic. Her forehead drops against my chest and her shoulders shake and the sound she makes is small and broken and it guts me.
I wrap my arms around her and hold on.
The cold air presses against my back and her warmth presses against my front, and she cries into my shirt the way a person cries when they've been clenching for years and the muscle finally gives.
I hold her through it. Don't speak. Don't soothe. Don't tell her it's going to be okay because I don't know if it is.
When the shaking slows, she pulls back enough to look at me.
Her lashes are wet and her nose is red from the cold and she's looking at me like I'm the first solid ground she's stood on in years.
"You didn't flinch." She says it like she's confirming something impossible.
I shake my head. "No."
Her fingers tighten on my jacket. "Why?"
I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, catching a tear before it reaches her jaw.
"Because I spent years being judged for something someone else did.
Kinsey's choices weren't mine, and your father's choices aren't yours.
I know how it feels to walk into a room and see people doing the math.
Deciding you're guilty before you open your mouth. "
I hold her face between my palms, my thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, tracing the line of her jaw, learning her face with my hands because my eyes aren't enough. "I'm not doing that math, Saylor. Not now. Not ever."
She doesn't answer with words. She leans in, her lips meeting mine in a way that makes the world around us vanish.
This isn't the desperate collision from her first night at the compound, nor the hungry, angry friction of our first encounter here at Backroads.
This is slow, wet, and aching.
It’s the kiss of a woman who has been holding her breath for years and is finally, shudderingly, exhaling.
Her lips are soft, parting slightly to let me in, her tongue flickering against mine in a tentative, searching rhythm.
It’s a conversation without words—a confession of everything she couldn't say.
Her fingers bunch the fabric of my jacket, pulling me closer until there is no air left between us, pressing her chest against mine until I can feel her heart slamming through both our layers.
The kiss tastes of salt from her tears and the sharp, crisp bite of the February air, but beneath it all is the sweet, overwhelming taste of relief.
I kiss her back with everything I have, pouring every ounce of my devotion into the pressure of my lips.
I’m gentle where she is fragile, my touch light and reverent, yet steady where she is shaking, providing the anchor she’s been searching for.
We stand on the back porch of Backroads, the freezing wind howling around us, but the cold doesn't touch us.
There’s a heat burning between us—a slow, simmering fire born of shared trauma and an unbreakable bond—and it isn't going out.
I can feel the warmth of her breath against my skin, the way she sighs into my mouth.
A sound I've never heard from her before. Open. Unguarded. Like she finally stopped fighting it.
When we finally break apart, it’s only by a fraction of an inch.
She keeps her grip on my jacket, her knuckles white, refusing to let go, as if I am the only thing keeping her grounded in the world.
"There's more." Her voice is rough. "About why I've been scared. About the man in the parking lot."
My body goes still. Not the stillness of calm. The stillness of a man whose instincts are screaming.
"His name is Dale Creedy." She says it like she's pulling a splinter. "He did time with my father. He showed up at my mom's house with a message. Said my father sent him."
She takes a breath. It shudders on the way in.
"He's been following my mom. Showing up at the gas station, driving past the house. And the other day, he was in the parking lot. Waiting for me."
I'm running the numbers in my head. Creedy. Twelve years. Aggravated assault.
Two counts. Both women.
"He said my father talks about me all the time." Her grip tightens on my jacket. "He had my graduation photo. He knew my childhood nickname. He knew things only my father could have told him."
The cold I'm feeling has nothing to do with being early March.
"How long?" My voice sounds different. Lower. Flatter. "How long has this been going on?"
She hesitates. "A few weeks."
My jaw flexes. "And you didn't tell me?"
It's not an accusation. I keep it level, keep it steady. But she hears what's underneath.
"I didn't want you to look at me differently." She says it to my chest, not my face. "I didn't want you to hear the name Halstead and have a bad opinion of me."
I lift her chin with my finger until she's looking at me. "You should’ve told me what was going on, Saylor."
She presses her lips together. "I know."
"Not because I needed to protect you. Because you were carrying this alone, and you didn't have to."
Her eyes fill again. She nods, pressing her lips together.
I pull her in and hold her against me.
My chin rests on top of her head, and I stare at the dark tree line behind Backroads and think about Dale Creedy.
His truck and his smile and the twelve years he did for putting his hands on women.
He's been circling the woman in my arms for weeks.
He stood three feet from her and said her daddy's name.
The part of me that's a college student, the part that sits in lectures and takes notes and worries about probability distributions, goes very far away.
The part of me that's a brother—patched or not—steps forward.
"I need you to tell me everything." I press my mouth against her hair. "From the beginning. Don't leave anything out."
She nods against my chest, and she tells me every last detail.