James

Annelly lies tucked against my chest, both of us pretending sleep is still an option.

The uncertainty of the night clings to us like a second skin. The packed go-bags. The fact that it’s nearly eleven and we’re lying here fully dressed. It all says what neither of us is ready to admit out loud.

We’re past the point where letting our guard down, even for a second, feels possible. Like even entertaining the thought might tempt the universe into taking what it thinks it’s owed.

The room is dim and quiet, the only light coming from the thin sliver beneath the door. Somewhere down the hall there’s the muted clink of gear being shifted. Boots against hardwood. Low voices. The house trying to settle around us, even as the rest of us brace for the hell that’s coming.

We leave just before midnight.

Forty-five minutes from now, Zeb and I will be on the road, starting the six-hour drive to a truck stop off I-84. A location chosen by the madman holding my brother hostage. The same bastard forcing me to leave the woman I love behind while he sends us into the dark on what could very well be a wild goose chase.

Nothing about this feels right.

I map it all out in my head without meaning to—the drive, the rendezvous, the wait. The moment it all goes sideways. Because it will. It always does when it’s something I care about on the line.

I don’t trust this plan.

I don’t trust the timing.

I don’t trust Victor.

And I don’t trust myself to hold it together when everything inevitably goes wrong.

My arms tighten around her on instinct, fingers curling into her hip like even my subconscious is trying to keep her here with me. To hold on to her warmth. The steady sound of her breathing. The quiet weight of her pressed against me in this brief, fragile pocket of certainty.

Because once I walk out of this room, nothing is guaranteed.

Not Tyler.

Not her.

Least of all the man I’ll be when this is over.

What if twenty-four hours from now I’m still alive but living a life I no longer want to exist in? A life without the two people I can’t breathe without.

The thought circles relentlessly, refusing to settle.

Refusing to let me rest.

Beneath my touch, her breathing changes. Just a slight hitch I feel against my chest, against my arms still locked around her in a hold I realize might be too tight.

I force myself to ease up, even as everything in me resists.

Like she senses the shift, she moves closer instead, her forehead brushing my collarbone, her nose tucked against my skin as she breathes me in.

“James?” Her voice is quiet. Hesitant. “Are you okay?”

I open my mouth on instinct, reaching for the lies that usually come so easily.

Of course.

I’m fine.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, I stare at the dark stretch of wall across the room, jaw tightening as I try to force them out. My chest feels too tight. My lungs too shallow. My voice too brittle to trust.

I swallow once.

Then again.

Her fingers curl lightly into the fabric of my shirt, not gripping, not demanding. Just there. A quiet reminder that she’s with me, giving me the space to decide how much of this I’m willing to let her see.

I exhale slowly, the sound rougher than I want it to be.

“No, snowflake,” I admit. “I’m not.”

I press my forehead to the top of her head, eyes closing as the truth settles heavy in my chest.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I say finally. “I don’t even know if I can.”

Her hand slides up my arm, thumb brushing over my wrist where my pulse is still racing. A grounding touch. A reminder that she’s here, that I’m not alone in this moment no matter how much it feels like I am.

“I wish I could promise you everything’s going to be okay,” I continue quietly. “I wish I could tell you this is just another bad night, another mess we’ll survive. That by this time tomorrow, everything will be right.”

My throat tightens.

“But I can’t.” My voice breaks. “Because the truth is… I don’t know.”

I loosen my hold on her hip just long enough to cup her face, pressing a kiss to her forehead and holding it there, breathing her in, committing the feel of her skin to memory.

“I don’t trust what’s happening,” I admit. “The timing. The rush. That bastard is up to something. I can feel it in my bones, in every damn part of me.” My jaw tightens. “And there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t see a way to stop what’s coming.”

I let out a breath that feels too thin, stopping just short of telling her what terrifies me most.

That I can feel him circling.

That every instinct I have is screaming that he’s using my brother to lure me away so he can slip in and take her while I’m not here to protect her.

The words hover there on the tip of my tongue, but I force them back. I won’t put that kind of fear into her head. Not tonight. Not when I’m minutes away from walking out the door and leaving her behind.

“I keep running through it,” I say instead, my voice rough despite my effort to keep it steady. “Every version of what could happen. Every possible outcome. Trying to find the one where we all make it out of this intact.”

I shake my head once.

“And there’s just so much we don’t know. So much that could go wrong.”

Including things I don’t know how to survive.

It’s the closest I can come to the truth without letting it swallow me whole, without dragging her down into the depths of my despair and drowning us both.

I shift just enough to look at her, my thumb brushing over the soft skin of her cheek as I commit this moment to memory, just in case.

“I hate that I can’t fix this for you,” I say quietly. “For us. For Tyler. And I hate that I’m walking out that door without answers, knowing I can’t protect you from the waiting, from the fear, from everything that comes next.”

My chest tightens, breath catching for half a second before I force it back under control.

“I need you to know that if I could stay, if there were any way to do this without leaving you behind, I would. In a heartbeat. I’d choose you every time, Annelly. Every single time.”

The words settle between us, raw and unguarded.

For the first time tonight, I let myself feel the full weight of what this is costing me. All the ways loving her has rewritten everything I thought I knew about love, about loss.

And still… nothing has ever felt more painfully worth it.

Annelly doesn’t speak right away. She stays curled against me, fingers resting lightly on my chest like she’s memorizing the rhythm of my heart. When she finally lifts her head, her eyes shine not just with tears but with a quiet resolve that steals my breath.

“I know you can’t promise me anything,” she says softly. “And I’m not asking you to. But I can’t help but have faith. In you. In us. In Tyler.”

Her hand slides up my chest to cup my face, anchoring herself to me.

“I know tomorrow could change everything,” she whispers, her voice trembling before it steadies. “But what won’t change is how much I love you. How badly I want a life with you.”

Tears sting my eyes, and I can’t help it. 

I don’t just lean in. I close the distance like I’m afraid the world might rip her away if I hesitate. My mouth finds hers with all the hunger and heartbreak I’ve been holding back, pouring every unsaid promise, every fear, every piece of my heart and soul into the kiss, praying she feels it.

When I finally pull away, we’re both breathless. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark and shining, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

“I love you, snowflake,” I whisper, my voice wrecked. “With all of my heart. With everything I am.”

“I know.” She gives me a watery smile, then her fingers trace the scruff along my jaw, memorizing me the same way I’m memorizing her. “I have hope, James. Enough for both of us. No matter how this turns out, you’re going to be alright. Because that’s who you are—my fighter. Tyler’s big brother.”

Her forehead rests against mine, warm and steady, a quiet light in the dark place inside me.

“Whatever happens,” she whispers, “remember I’ll love you forever.”

I pull her closer, wrapping myself around her like I can keep the world from touching her if I just hold on hard enough.

For one fragile moment, the world shrinks to this bed. Her breath. Her warmth. The impossible hope she’s pressing into me just by being here.

But the spell is broken just a second later when my phone vibrates on the nightstand.

My stomach drops as I reach for it.

And there on the screen, I find the words I’ve been dreading.

Zeb: We’re a go. Moving out in 30.

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