Page 97 of Wild Thorns

I needed to think. Needed to process everything that had happened, everything I'd seen, everything I was feeling. But I couldn't do that here. Not with the brothers a hundred yards away, probably listening to every move I made, probably smelling my fear and confusion in the air.

Could werewolves smell emotions? I didn't know if that was true, but it felt true, and right now I couldn't handle the thought of being watched, analyzed, and understood by creatures I couldn't begin to understand myself.

I needed distance. Physical, emotional, psychological distance.

I needed Tara.

The thought crystallized so suddenly it felt like a revelation. Tara, who had known me for eleven years. Who had talked me through the worst nights of Marcus's abuse without ever once making me feel weak or broken.

I still remembered the night I'd called her at 3 a.m., voice shaking so badly I could barely form words. Marcus had thrown a glass at my head. Missed by inches. Left a dent in the wall I'd have to explain to the landlord.

"Get out," Tara had said, no hesitation. "Get out right now. Get in your car and drive to me. I don't care if you show up in your pajamas. I don't care if you have nothing but the clothes on your back. Get out, Serena. Get out tonight."

I hadn't left that night. It had taken me another eight months. But I'd never forgotten the steel in her voice, the absolute certainty that I deserved better. She'd never made me feel stupid for staying. Never made me feel weak for loving someone who hurt me. She'd just kept saying get out, get out, get out until I finally did.

She checked in regularly, like clockwork, teased me about the brothers, and had been begging me for months to get my ass to Nashville for a visit.

I couldn't tell her everything. Couldn't explain werewolves, monsters, and dreams that felt like prophecy. She'd think I'd finally cracked under the pressure of running from Marcus, that the trauma had caught up with me in the worst possible way.

But I could tell her some of it. Could sit across from her in her cramped Nashville apartment and let her sharp eyes see whatever they needed to see. Could let her hold my hand and tell me things would be okay, even if we both knew she was lying.

I needed my best friend. I needed to not be alone with this.

My phone was still sitting on the counter where I'd abandoned it last night. I picked it up, thumbed to my messages, and started typing before I could talk myself out of it.

To Tara: I'm coming to visit. Can I crash at your place for a couple of weeks?

The response came almost immediately, despite the early hour. Tara had always been a light sleeper, and she kept her phone on loud in case I needed her. She'd been doing that since I left Atlanta, since before I left, really. Since the first time I'd called her crying at 2 a.m. and she'd stayed on the line for three hours, talking about nothing, just so I wouldn't feel alone.

From Tara: YES. When? What happened? Are you okay?

From Tara: Wait. Is this a "I need a vacation" visit or a "something is very wrong" visit? Because I'm getting 3am energy from this text and it's 5:47am.

From Tara: Also why are you awake at 5:47am? You hate mornings. You once told me sunrise was a personal attack.

I almost smiled despite everything. That was Tara , three texts in rapid succession, oscillating between genuine concern and the kind of teasing that meant she loved me.

To Tara: I'll explain when I get there. Nothing with Marcus. Just need to get away for a bit.

From Tara: "Need to get away" she says, at 5am, after weeks of being cagey about those three brothers she definitely isn't sleeping with.

From Tara: I'm not stupid, Serena. Something happened. But fine. I'll wait. Get your ass to Nashville. My couch is lumpy, but my wine selection is excellent and my interrogation skills are unmatched.

To Tara: I'll drive up today. Should be there later tonight.

From Tara: I'll have takeout waiting. And wine. And that listening face you hate.

From Tara: The one where I don't say anything and just let you talk until you accidentally tell me the truth.

To Tara: I love you.

From Tara: Love you too, baby girl. Now pack. I have questions, and you have an eight-hour drive to think up answers. Pro tip: the truth is usually easier to remember than the lie.

The relief that flooded through me was almost physical. A plan. An escape route. A way to put miles between myself and the brothers and the dreams and all of it, at least temporarily.

I couldn't make decisions here. Couldn't trust my own judgment while I was living in their orbit, sleeping above their garage, waking up every morning to the sight of the magnolia tree that had become such a central part of my new life. Everything was too close, too tangled, too complicated.

Nashville would give me space and time. Time to think without Callum's intense gaze tracking my every move. Without Jasper's warmth bleeding through the walls and making me want to climb back into bed with him. Time to breathe without Eli's methodical questions, his careful touch making me want things I shouldn't want.