Chapter 16 Storm #2
The path narrows the further away from the houses that we get.
Sawgrass leans in on both sides of the dock until we reach a space cleared.
A live oak crouches ahead where perfection gives way to mud and water, its roots knuckled and twisted, branches cutting a lace of dark against the sky.
The marsh opens past it in flat silver and black, the tide sliding in and out with a low whisper.
The moon hangs low behind thin clouds. Light spills over her face in washed-out blue. For a second she looks unreal. Fragile and fierce at the same time.
She slows as we reach the tree. Her fingers slip from mine.
It’s a tiny thing. It still hits like a punch.
I let her go. Her shoulders rise. Hold. Drop.
“You okay?” I ask.
She opens her eyes, still looking at the marsh surrounding us instead of me.
“The others…they kept saying we were in the middle of nowhere, that it was hopeless,” she says.
“Metal walls. No windows. Just…noise. After that first day, when I broke free for a few minutes, I had no idea if it was day or night until I escaped.”
My hand curls into a fist. Knuckles pop.
“That first day…when I woke up…I kept trying to make it make sense,” she goes on. “Count the screws. Count my breaths. Pretend I could hear something outside that told me where I was. I decided I was near the docks. Told myself if I got out, I could just… jump and run.”
Her voice thins, then steadies. She swallows.
“And then I got out.” Her fingers tighten on the rail. “And there was just water. Nothing. No lights. No shore. Just…the water. And the water was so far down.” She gestures at the marsh like it’s a ghost of that moment. “I’m terrified of heights. I’ve never told anyone that until that night.”
I step closer, slow enough she can shut me down if she wants. “You’re not out there now.”
“I know.”
She says it fast, automatic. Her body doesn’t buy it yet. The wind tugs her shirt against her spine. She shivers once, sharp and involuntary.
I’m done watching her shiver.
I reach behind my back and slide one of my knives from its sheath. The movement comes easy, my muscles doing what they’ve done a thousand times. The weight in my hand is familiar. Solid. Honest.
Her gaze drops to the blade as it catches a strip of moonlight. She doesn’t flinch. That shouldn’t wreck me. It does.
“What are you doing?” she asks, quiet.
“Making something make sense,” I say.
I move past her to the live oak and pick a spot in the bark at about my eye level. Anger hums under my skin—not at her. Never at her.
I’m angry at steel boxes and leather cuffs and the idea of anyone putting their hands on her and walking away.
I let that anger ride my arm. I draw back and drive the knife into the tree in one clean motion.
Steel bites wood with a dull, solid thunk. The handle vibrates once under my palm, then goes still. The blade stands there, buried to the hilt.
Phoenix startles. Not backward. Toward me. She spins, eyes wide, chest rising fast.
“Storm.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. My voice comes out rough, like it was dragged over gravel. “You hear me?”
Her eyes flick from the knife to my face. Her pupils are blown wide in the low light.
“This,” I say, tapping the hilt with two fingers, “is me. Right here. On this island. On that ship. In a grocery store. In line at the DMV. Doesn’t matter where. I’m here for you.”
I step closer. Close enough to touch, still leaving air between us so she gets to decide.
“There’s no version of events where someone puts you in a box again and I’m not there,” I tell her. “There’s no world where a guy like Danner pushes you toward a bed and I let him live through it. Not while I’m breathing. Not while I’ve got these hands. Not while I’ve got these.”
I nod at the knife. “And I always have these.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to figure out if I actually mean it or if this is just some comforting line.
I take a slow breath past the knot in my throat. Marsh air fills my lungs—salt, mud, and a faint curl of smoke from the grill back at the house. Real. Grounding.
“I can’t promise you the world’s safe,” I say.
“It’s not. I can’t promise nobody’s ever gonna come for you again.
People suck too much for that.” I hold her gaze, lock it.
“But I can promise this. If they do, they go through me first. Every time. I’ll always protect you, Phoenix. I’ll always come for you.”
Her throat works. She looks at the knife again. Her hand lifts, hesitates, then closes around the hilt near my fingers. Her skin is warm against my knuckles.
“You can’t promise me always,” she whispers.
“I just did,” I say. “And I don’t break promises.”
The wind gusts, tugging her hair across her mouth. This time I don’t fight the urge. I reach up, slow, and tuck the strand behind her ear. My knuckles brush her cheek where Danner hit her. The bruise is almost gone, just a faint yellow ghost.
Rage sparks hot and clean. It fades under something softer when she leans into my touch—barely, but it’s enough.
Her hand slides off the knife and finds mine instead. She laces our fingers together and steps into my space until her chest is against my ribs and her forehead rests against my sternum.
For a second I forget how to breathe. Then my body remembers. My arms move on their own. I wrap them around her—one across her shoulders, one low at her back. I feel the line of her spine, the little hitch in her breathing, the way she melts and tenses at the same time.
“I hate that they got that close,” she says into my shirt. Her words vibrate against my chest. “I hate that I froze, even for a second.”
“You didn’t freeze,” I say. “You survived. You fought. You got yourself to that door. You hurt him. You did everything right. The part where we dragged you the rest of the way out?” I tighten my hold. “That’s on us. Not on you.”
Her fingers bunch in my shirt. “You came.”
“Every time,” I murmur into her hair. “You say my name, I’m already moving.”
We stand there while the marsh breathes around us. Water whispers through the grass. The buoy dings again, faint and steady. A heron calls, harsh and low. Behind us, the house glows soft through the trees, proof the world still has safe corners.
She tips her head back to look at me. Her eyes shine in the pale light. “What if I’m not always like this?” she asks. “What if one day I’m just…normal again?”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Then I’ll protect that too.”
She studies my face for a long beat. Then she rises on her toes and presses her mouth to mine. Soft. Careful. Not a claim. A question.
Heat flares through me. I kiss her back just as gently, holding everything else on a tight leash. This isn’t about taking. This is about letting her choose.
She pulls back first. Her breath skims warm over my lips.
“Okay,” she says. “Then I’m holding you to your stupid knife promise.”
“Good,” I say. “Tree’s a witness. Marsh, too. Whole damn island heard me.”
She laughs—small, shaky, stupidly beautiful. The sound slides into all the cracked places inside my chest and settles there.
I keep one arm around her as we turn back toward the house. Her hand stays in mine. The knife stays in the oak, buried deep, catching the thin wash of moonlight.
A mark in wood.
A vow in the dark.