Chapter Ten
Alexander
Zayn and I head for the living room, both of us quiet, lost in our own thoughts after what we just saw.
Dean curled up with Ayla, the two of them wrapped in silent comfort—it’s not the image I expected to find, and what shocks me most is how little jealousy I feel.
Instead, it’s relief. The only thing that matters is that she’s safe, that she’s held by someone who gives a damn, even if it’s not me.
It’s a new feeling—one I didn’t expect—but it settles something inside me, as I can finally breathe.
Zayn drops into the recliner, running a hand over his face. “So what do we actually do now, man? We can’t just hide forever. The cops, the Bates family… hell, the whole city is about to start looking.”
I shake my head, tension burning in my jaw. “We can’t stay. We have to move her—soon. I’m not risking her safety just because I want to pretend this is normal.”
Zayn gives me a look and smirks. “And you’re really not pissed about Dean in there with her? Shit, Alex. You were never one to share. That’s always been a me thing.”
I let out a tired laugh, surprised by how easy it is. “Yeah, well, the world’s upside down. Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”
He grins, nudging my foot with his. “Careful, next thing you know you’ll be letting me pick the playlist and drive your bike.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I say, but my smile is real—for a second, the heaviness in the room lifts.
Then I sober, glancing toward the dark hallway. “Seriously, Zayn—if she feels safe, I don’t give a shit who gives it to her. She deserves comfort. She deserves peace. For once, this isn’t about me.”
We lapse into a heavy silence, the weight of everything pressing in. Then, both our phones vibrate at the same time. I glance down, and my stomach drops. A missing person alert flashes across my screen:
MISSING: AYLA BARRON, 20, 5’7”, dark brown hair, brown eyes—fiancée of prominent attorney Derek Bates—last seen at 17 Parkside Lane after Mr. Bates’ body was discovered.
Multiple witnesses report Ayla was last seen fleeing the scene on the back of a black motorcycle driven by an unidentified masked man.
NYPD has issued a statewide search. Hotlines open.
Reward: $100,000 for information leading to her discovery.
The room goes cold. Zayn looks at me, panic and resolve flickering in his eyes. “They’re making her out to be a fugitive. We need to move. Now.”
I nod, the stress thrumming through my veins.
Staying put is no longer an option. I make a quick circuit of the house, checking every lock and window.
Even as Zayn settles in the recliner, I drift down the hall and pause at the bedroom door.
Ayla is curled up with Dean, both of them exhausted, a rare moment of peace amid the chaos.
Instead of jealousy, all I feel is gratitude: she’s not alone tonight.
I return to the living room, where Zayn is still awake, tension in his jaw. He glances at me. “We go at dawn?”
“Yeah. First light,” I say quietly. “We’ll pack what we can, get Ayla up, and disappear before anyone’s watching.”
Zayn nods, his eyes already distant with exhaustion and worry. “We’ll make it work, man. We have to.”
I sit in the dark a while longer, listening to the city outside and the quiet in the house, letting the plan settle in my bones. For now, we have a plan. Tomorrow, we run.
Ayla
I wake to the first rays of morning spilling across the room, golden and soft.
Dean’s arms are curled protectively around me, and for a moment, guilt snags in my chest—sharp and unwelcome.
I shouldn’t want this comfort, not when Alex is just down the hall, not when I know how badly I’ve needed someone—anyone—to make me feel safe.
But I do want it. I sink into the warmth and security Dean offers, letting myself pretend, just for a heartbeat, that I deserve it.
Carefully, I slip out from under his arm, my movements feather-light, as if I could escape the ache of wanting both safety and something wilder, something more dangerous.
Dean stirs awake, blinking up at me with sleep-mussed brown hair and a lazy, genuine smile that makes my heart twist. “Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice honey-thick with sleep.
His fingers brush gently through my hair, sending a pleasant shiver down my spine as I sit up—and I wonder, fleetingly, if Alex would notice the difference in the way I smile at Dean, if he’d sense the guilt fluttering behind my eyes.
“Morning,” I reply, but even as I say it, I feel the word falter—a flash of hesitation that I hope he doesn’t catch.
I steal a glance toward the door, half-expecting Alex to appear, to see this softness and call me out on it.
Dean’s boyishness, the gentleness in his expression, is nothing like Alex’s raw, electric intensity—the kind that makes my skin buzz and my heart race.
I shouldn’t compare them, but I do. I can’t help it.
Dean’s green eyes are striking, bright and clear, framed by a tumble of brown hair that catches the light.
He’s muscular in a quiet, unassuming way—broad shoulders, strong arms decorated with tattoos that peek out from under his T-shirt.
The silver barbell in his eyebrow flashes in the morning sun, drawing my gaze, and for just a moment, my heart flutters with want and fear, tangled together.
I wonder how much Dean sees—if he can feel the tension coiling between us, or if it’s obvious that I’m already pulled in too many directions.
I realize I’m staring, and heat colors my cheeks. “I’m gonna go find coffee,” I mumble, slipping out of bed. Dean stretches and smiles again, warmth in his eyes. “I’ll follow you, beautiful.”
We make our way to the kitchen, the scent of pancakes drifting down the hall before I even step through the doorway.
I brace myself for awkwardness—after everything, how could there not be?
But the second I see Alex, all that tension dissolves.
He’s at the stove, flipping pancakes with an easy confidence, but when he spots me, he sets the spatula aside and walks straight over, crowding into my space like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Good morning, darling. How did you sleep? How are you?”
The word darling sends a flutter through me—the same dizzy little thrill I felt when Dean smiled at me earlier.
It’s confusing, all these feelings tangled up together, but there’s no shame or awkwardness in the room, just warmth and something that feels dangerously close to belonging.
I’m not sure what societal rule I’m breaking, standing here with a man who killed for me and another who held me through the night, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Maybe this is what it feels like to be safe—messy, complicated, and completely outside the lines.
Nothing about my life has ever been normal anyway.
“I slept really well, actually,” I reply softly.
“Listen,” Zayn says, his voice low but urgent, “the police are looking for you, Ayla. Where’s your phone?”
I shake my head. “I shut it off and stashed it inside the rip in the couch when Derek started talking about my father. I had a bad feeling. I left it, hidden in there.”
Zayn nods, visibly relieved. “Good. No way for anyone to track us, then. We’ve gotta keep it that way—no phones, no slip-ups, and pray the police don’t find it.”
Before I can even form a reply, Alex jumps in. “I’ve got a place we can hide out, if you’re up for a drive. I have a cabin just outside Charleston, West Virginia. It’s an eight-hour haul from New York, but that kind of distance is exactly what we need.”
Everything blurs for a second—panic, relief, disbelief, all crashing together in a dizzy rush.
Am I really about to go on the run with these men?
It should terrify me, but the answer is yes—instinctive, certain.
Because for the first time in my life, I feel protected.
Not just watched, or possessed, or managed, but genuinely safe.
These men—dangerous, complicated, imperfect—are the only shield I’ve ever had against a world that keeps trying to break me.
The alternative is worse: returning to a cage, with Derek’s father holding the key…
or worse, my own father’s shadow reaching for me again.
My princess, his voice echoes in my skull, cold and cruel.
I force it away, pushing down old terrors and choosing, for once, to run toward something instead of just away.
“When do we leave?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Eat first. We’ll leave right after,” Alex says. I notice he’s not eating, nor are the others—everyone’s on edge, eyes darting to the clock and the windows like the world could break in at any second.
I sit down at the table with Zayn. He flashes me a crooked grin, eyes glinting in a way that’s both reassuring and just a little flirty. “You’re riding with me, gorgeous. Alex and Dean will be on their bikes out front, with a clear road ahead. You good with that?”
His knee bumps mine under the table, and I don’t think it was an accident. My cheeks heat as I meet his gaze—there’s a spark there, a teasing challenge that makes my pulse skip. “Yeah,” I say, managing a small smile. “I’m good with that.”
He leans in a bit, dropping his voice. “Don’t worry, Ayla. I’ll keep you safe. Just stick close.”
Breakfast is a blur—my stomach too tight with nerves and something warmer, anticipation winding through the fear.
After Alex brings me my clothes, somehow spotless, I change quickly in the bathroom.
When I come out, everyone is waiting: bags packed, engines ready, eyes bright with adrenaline and something almost like hope.