Page 97 of Rogue Riders Duet

“She’s not answering her phone,” Dane says desperately, his voice cracking.

“Okay.” I grab my hoodie and pull it over my head. “I’ll check the nearby streets. The trails too. She’s probably just cooling off, yeah?”

I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, myself or him.

“Finn… please find her.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I’ve got this. I’m gonna find her.”

For the next two hours, I comb the streets around the hotel, every alley, every bench, but nothing. After the first half hour, I even started calling her real name.

By the time I circle back to the hotel, my hoodie is damp with sweat, and my legs are burning from pacing half the damn village.

My heart pounds in my ears as I head toward the hotel bar in a last-ditch effort. I don’t think she’s the type to drink when she’s spiraling, but I also didn’t think she’d vanish into the night either. It only takes me a couple of minutes of searching to realize that she’s not there.

I pull out my phone to call Dane, who answers immediately.

“Did you find her?”

“No, I just wanted to update you. I’m gonna wake some teammates and get some help. I’ve looked everywhere, man, but… she’s just gone.”

A choked cough sounds through the phone, or maybe it’s a sob, and the failure presses in on me. When I make it to the elevator, my subconscious picks up on something well before I do.

Muffled music.

I whirl toward the sound, toward the back of the hotel, slowly registering what I’m hearing—Sum 41’s “Pieces,” and it’s coming from the hotel gym.

“I think I found her. I’ll call back soon.” I end the call and slip my phone into my pocket, my strides lengthening as I head toward the low pulse of music.

I glance through the glass door first, but from this angle, I can’t see anyone. Pushing against the handle, I step inside.

The smell of rubber mats and stale air hits me as I walk past the treadmills and toward the music. And there she is. The weight of an entire mountain lifts off my chest as I finally lay eyes on the woman I’ve been searching for.

Alaina.

Her back is to me, sweat shimmering along the curve of her spine, trailing from the base of her cropped hairline and disappearing between the muscles that shift beneath her skin as she moves. She’s in shorts and a sports bra, her hoodie tossed carelessly over the bench beside her phone.

She’s lifting a barbell, facing the mirror, so I see all of her at once. The strength in her shoulders. The tension in her jaw.

And the tears.

I forget how to breathe because for the first time, I really see her.

Not the rookie she pretends to be.

Not my best friend’s little sister, who looked at me like I hung the moon.

Her.

Beautiful in a way that isn’t soft. Fierce in a way that isn’t loud.

Her tears cut lines through the grit on her face as she punishes her body, and I watch, mesmerized, before I take in the rest of her more closely.

Scars stretch across her skin, thin and pale against the sheen of sweat. Some are long, others jagged. I knew they were there, but seeing them now, written across her back and ribs like battle lines, hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.

I try to marry the scars against the footage seared into my brain, and it dawns on me that I didn’t understand what surviving meant until this moment, until I saw it carved into her.

That is not the body of a kid. It’s the body of a warrior.