I settled back against his chest. Found the spot — my spot, the one that fit, the one I'd been looking for without knowing I was looking.
His heart beat under my ear. Steady. Sure.
I fell asleep tracing the rope burn on his ring finger and thinking that scars weren't damage. Scars were proof you survived.
And for the first time, I wasn't just surviving.
I was building something worth the risk.
Chapter 13
Callie
The handover point was a gas station parking lot off the interstate.
Neutral ground. The kind of place where you bought bad coffee and ended worlds. I'd dressed Maisie in her favorite outfit — the stripy leggings, the pink boots, the cardigan with the stars — because armor comes in all sizes and my daughter needed hers today.
She'd been quiet for the last twenty miles. Knees together, shoulders curled in, stuffed horse pressed against her chest, her pink cowboy boots hanging still six inches off the floor. Taking up less space than a kid that small should be able to.
But she was still negotiating. "If Starlight has a baby, can the baby be mine?"
Clay glanced in the rearview. "Starlight's a yearling, Mais. She's not having babies for a while."
"But when she does."
"When she does, we'll talk about it."
"That means yes."
I made a sound beside him. Not a laugh — my jaw was too tight for that today — but close. A breath through my nose that acknowledged my daughter was a pint-sized contract lawyer, and there was nothing either of us could do about it.
"It means we'll talk about it," Clay said.
"Oliver at school says 'we'll talk about it' is what grown-ups say when they mean yes, but they don't want to say it yet. Just like when Mommy says ‘we’ll see’ she always says yes later.”
"Oliver sounds like a real authority."
"He put glue in Sophie's hair. He's not an authority. But he was right about this one s-pifc thing."
I pressed my lips together and looked out the window. My shoulders shook once. Clay caught it. On a day like today, I'd take any fraction of lightness I could get.
Preston's car was already there — black, German, polished to a shine that looked aggressive — and the second I saw it, my hand moved to the armrest and gripped.
Clay parked. I unclipped Maisie with steady hands and crouched to her level. "You're going to have a great time, baby. I'll be right here Sunday, okay?"
Maisie studied my face with those enormous blue eyes. Then she leaned forward and whispered, "Don't be sad, Mommy. I'll come back. I always come back."
My composure flickered — just a flash, there and gone — and I kissed her forehead and stood.
I walked her across the lot. Preston stepped out — suit, no tie, the casual that rich men rehearse — and took the overnight bag without looking at it. He said something about traffic. I didn't respond. He crouched to Maisie with a smile that looked right from twenty feet and probably felt like nothing up close.
Maisie got in the car. She didn't look back. Five years old and she'd already learned not to look back.
The black car pulled away.
I stood in the parking lot for exactly three seconds with my arms wrapped around myself. Then I walked to the truck, climbed in, closed the door, and bent forward with my hands over my face.
No sound. My whole body shook, but my mouth stayed pressed shut, every breath trapped behind my teeth. I'd perfected this. A woman who could cry without making a single noise that would carry through a wall.
