Chapter 5
Liam
She didn’t let go of my hand the entire flight home.
Didn’t let go when I helped her up the narrow steps of the jet. Didn’t let go when she froze in the doorway, eyes vacant, breath shaking so hard her whole body trembled.
Didn’t let go when I guided her to the seat and crouched in front of her to buckle her in because her fingers wouldn’t work.
“Sweetheart, I’ve got you,” I murmured, sliding the belt across her hips, snapping it into place. Her breathing hitched, uneven and shallow. Shock. Trauma. Terror. All of it vibrated out of her in tiny, sharp tremors.
“Lee…” Her voice was paper-thin. “I’m… so cold.”
I wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, tucking it tight, but she shivered harder, her teeth clicking together. Cold from the inside. The kind trauma carved into bone.
Takeoff shook her. The engines roared, and she crumpled sideways, fingers clawing blindly until they found my wrist. She latched on like she was drowning.
“S’okay if I…?” she whispered, voice barely a sound. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, a catatonic glaze fighting for control.
“Yeah, sweetheart.” I unbuckled and pulled her into my lap before the jet even leveled out. “Whatever you need.”
She climbed into me like muscle memory—one arm around my neck, her cheek pressed into my throat, her legs hooking over mine. She burrowed in with these tiny, broken whimpers, shaking so bad I wrapped both arms around her and held on like I could fuse her back together.
She smelled like fear, sweat, and her. Always her.
Somewhere over Arizona, she went limp with sleep. Not peaceful—more like a body giving out. But even unconscious, her hand stayed tangled in my shirt, knuckles white.
Tom Morrison’s pilot had taken one look at us—her wrapped around me like a child clinging to safety, the bruises already blooming across her face, my expression probably lethal enough to qualify as a weapon—and didn’t ask a single damn question. Just shut the door and got us in the air fast.
God bless Texas men who knew when to keep their mouths shut.
She stirred once, maybe twice, small little sounds tearing out of her throat.
I shifted her carefully. “Bathroom?”
A tiny nod.
I carried her because she was shaking too hard to walk. Held her steady while she used the toilet. Kept my eyes respectfully averted but stayed close enough that she knew I wasn’t leaving. Helped her wash her hands when she couldn’t figure out the faucet.
Then, under the soft cabin lights, I checked every place she winced.
Her wrists—bruised where he’d grabbed her.
Her collarbone—red marks where he’d shoved her down.
Her face—one ugly bruise across her cheekbone blooming like oil under her skin.
Her throat—four fingerprint bruises on one side, a thumbprint on the other.
I swore under my breath. Hard. Low. Vicious.
“I’m gonna kill him,” I muttered before I could stop myself.
She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up.
It must’ve been shock. Or trust. Or both.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered as I lifted her back into my arms.
She made this sound—God, the smallest, most broken noise I’ve ever heard—and tucked her face into my neck.
Then she climbed back into my lap with this instinctive, full-body urgency, wrapping herself around me like she was trying to get inside my skin. Her shaking got worse, not better, and I tightened my hold, rocking her gently even though my own hands were trembling.
Her fingertips curled into my chest. Her breath hitched against my throat. She was freezing.
“Still here,” I murmured every time her breathing stuttered. “I’m still here, baby.”
Every twenty minutes or so, she surfaced—never really awake, just… checking. Her fingers would clench. Her head would lift a fraction. Her lips would part like she was about to fall apart completely.
“Stephy,” I’d whisper. “I’m right here.”
She would let out a fragile breath. Tap my chest once. And slip under again.
It was like watching someone drown and bob up for air on instinct alone.
When the pilot announced our descent, she didn’t stir.
I pressed my lips to her temple, breathing her in. “Almost home,” I whispered, my voice shaking for the first time all night. “Almost safe.”
Even asleep, she burrowed closer. Like she believed me. Like I was the only thing keeping her alive.
And maybe I was.
The Texas sunrise was just breaking as we touched down at the county airfield, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that seemed too beautiful for what had happened. The light caught the dried tear tracks on her face, turned them silver.
I'd never been so grateful to see anything as I was to see that helicopter waiting on the tarmac.
Tom Morrison's helicopter sat there like salvation—Owen had thought of everything.
The man had probably called in every favor, pulled every string, made it happen in the middle of the night without question.
The pilot, Jimmy, was another veteran, another man who knew when not to ask questions.
He took one look at how Stephy was wrapped around me and just nodded.
"Mr. Blackwood said you'd need a smooth ride," was all Jimmy said, helping me navigate into the back while keeping Stephy attached.
"Yes, sir. My place, the south paddock."
"The smaller ranch? Not the main Blackwood property?"
"That's right. My land."
Jimmy nodded, understanding without explanation that sometimes a man needed his own territory.
The transfer from plane to helicopter should have woken her, but Stephy had gone so deep into sleep it was almost concerning.
Her body had finally, completely shut down, trusting me to handle everything.
She stayed wrapped around me as I carried her, adjusted slightly as I settled us into the helicopter seats, but never let go.
Her fingers had been clenched in my shirt so long that there would probably be permanent wrinkles.
"Lee?" she mumbled as the rotors started, not opening her eyes.
"I'm here. We're in Texas now. Almost home."
"'Kay." She pressed her face harder into my chest. "Don't let go."
"Never."
She made a soft sound of agreement and went back under, her body going limp against mine except for that death grip on my shirt. The trust in that—falling asleep in my arms while helicopter rotors thundered around us—about broke me.
The flight to my ranch took twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of watching Texas wake up below us, ranch land and mesquite trees and the kind of wide-open spaces where a person could breathe.
Where a person could heal. My land appeared below—smaller than the main Blackwood ranch but mine, bought with the inheritance my parents had left.
They'd died when I was fifteen, but the life insurance and their savings had waited for me, growing, until I was ready to build something of my own.
Five hundred acres next door to the family ranch.
Close enough to be safe, far enough to be separate.
I'd built the main house myself, along with a small guest cabin just thirty feet from my front door.
Originally meant for when Sophia visited, or if one of my brothers needed to crash, but now it would be Stephy's sanctuary.
I saw them before we landed. Owen's truck parked at the edge of my paddock, two figures standing beside it. My throat went tight. They'd been waiting all night. Of course, they had.
The helicopter settled into the grass, dust swirling in golden clouds as the rotors slowed.
Morning light caught the particles, turned them into gold glitter dancing in the air.
Through the window, I could see Louisa's face—worried, maternal, already in full caretaker mode.
She'd probably been cooking and preparing since I left last night.
Owen stood beside her, solid as the earth itself, one hand on her shoulder, that quiet strength that had held our family together through everything.
I gathered Stephy closer, adjusted the blanket around her, and stepped out into the Texas morning.
The smell hit me first—grass and earth and that particular combination of horses and hay and home.
My horses—five of them so far—were at the fence line, ears pricked with curiosity.
The morning air was cool but warming, carrying the scent of oak trees and wildflowers.
Such a stark difference from LA's exhaust and artificial everything.
Stephy stirred slightly, her nose wrinkling, and for a second I thought she'd wake. But she just adjusted her grip—both arms now wrapped around my neck like a sleeping child—and burrowed deeper.
"She okay?" Louisa asked softly, already moving to open the truck's back door.
"Exhausted," I said, shifting Stephy's weight. She couldn't have weighed more than one-twenty soaking wet, but the way she was clinging made it awkward to move. "She's been out since we left LA."
Louisa's eyes went soft when she saw Stephy's face up close, the bruises visible even in the gentle morning light. I saw her jaw tighten, that mama bear fury carefully controlled, before her expression smoothed back to gentle concern.
"Oh, honey," she whispered, reaching out like she wanted to touch Stephy's hair, then pulling back. "That poor baby."
Owen was already at my other side, taking my duffel bag without being asked. He looked at Stephy's battered face, and something dangerous flickered in his eyes—the same protective rage I felt. "Guest cabin?"
"Yeah. I want her close but with her own space."
He nodded, understanding immediately. "The girls have been there half the night. Got it ready."
The truck ride across my property was silent except for Stephy's breathing.
She was tucked against me in the backseat, still clinging like a koala, Owen driving carefully over the dirt road to avoid bumps.
Every pothole we couldn't avoid made Stephy whimper and press closer, though she never woke fully.
"She's holding on so tight," Louisa murmured, looking back at us.