That’s all that matters.
I lean back slightly in the chair.
Still holding her hand.
Still not letting go.
“You’re not getting rid of me,” I tell her.
She doesn’t even hesitate.
“Good.”
49
Clay
The vehicle doesn’t slow.
Doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t breathe.
It tears through the night like something chased by hell itself.
I sit hunched forward, one hand braced against my vest, the other gripping the edge of the seat as the pain finally starts to break through.
Not sharp.
Not clean.
Deep.
Bruising.
“Let me see it,” Lucas says.
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“Bull—”
“I said I’m fine.”
The kids are watching.
Every single one of them.
Wide eyes.
Silent.
Still shaking.
So I straighten.
Ignore the way my ribs protest.
Ignore the way breathing suddenly feels optional.
