Page 27 of Wild Thorns

I scrambled out of bed, the floor cold against my bare feet, and ran to check. The deadbolt was thrown. The chain was on. I pressed my palm flat against the door and felt the solid wood, the metal hardware, the physical reality of the barrier between me and the outside world.

Through the window beside the door, I caught a glimpse of movement in the yard below.

My heart stopped.

But it wasn't Marcus. It was Callum, crossing the front yard in the hazy light of pre-dawn, moving with that fluid, purposeful stride I'd come to recognize. He paused near the magnolia tree, head tilting slightly, like he was listening to something I couldn't hear.

For a moment, just a moment, he looked up at my window.

I couldn't see his expression from this distance, couldn't tell if he'd actually seen me or was just scanning the property the way he always did. But something about knowing he was there, that he was awake. His presence, watching while I fell apart, eased the panic.

I was safe.

But was I?

The paranoia was the worst part. The way every shadow looked like Marcus. The way every unexpected sound made me flinch. The way I couldn't trust my own perceptions anymore, couldn't tell if the fear was rational or if I was broken, damaged, ruined by what he'd done to me.

I didn't sleep. I sat in the dark with my back against the headboard, watching the door, waiting for something that never came. By the time dawn turned the sky from black to gray to gold, I was exhausted in a way that went deeper than tired.

Later that morning, I made coffee and sat on the porch.

The magnolia tree was doing its thing with the light, the way it always did. The blooms seemed to glow in the morning sun, white petals catching and holding the gold like something precious. Beyond it, the preserve was quiet, that stillness of early morning before the day really began.

Below, I could hear the sounds of the Voss household: footsteps crossing a room, a door closing, someone laughing. The ordinary sounds of people living their lives without fear. Without the constant calculation of threat and escape that had become my default setting.

I wrapped my hands around my mug and tried to feel something other than hollow.

The coffee was too hot. I didn't care. The burn was grounding, proof that I was here, that I was real, that last night hadn't broken me completely.

I made a decision.

He didn't get to take this. Not this town, not this apartment, not this feeling of almost-belonging that I'd started to build. Not the brothers who looked at me like I mattered. Not the tree that felt like coming home.

I liked it here.

I wasn't going anywhere.

But when Jasper passed by, looking up with that easy smile, his expression shifted the moment he caught sight of my face.

The charm fell away like a mask being removed. His whole body changed, going from relaxed to coiled in a single heartbeat. His nostrils flared. His eyes seemed to catch the light differently, amber deepening toward gold.

"Serena?" He was at the bottom of my stairs in seconds, moving faster than seemed possible. "What happened?"

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine." He didn't push past the bottom step, respecting my space even now, but his whole body was tense, alert. Vibrating with a barely leashed energy that felt almost dangerous. "Talk to me."

"Jasper—"

"You've been crying." It wasn't a question. His voice was gentle, but his eyes were sharp, taking in every detail: the shadows under my eyes, the way I was holding myself, the death grip I had on my coffee mug. "And you didn't sleep. And something scared you." A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Don't tell me you're fine."

I looked at him, really looked. In the morning light, with that uncharacteristic seriousness on his face, he seemed older somehow. Larger. The playful rogue who'd shown up with pie was gone, replaced by someone who looked like he could tear apart whatever had hurt me with his bare hands.

The thought should have scared me. It didn't.

"How do you know I've been crying?"

"Your eyes." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "And you're holding that mug like it's the only thing keeping you upright." His voice dropped. "I can smell the fear on you."