“You're not broken,” I tell her, though the words feel inadequate. “You're adapting. There's a difference.”
“Is there?” She looks up at me, and I see the war raging inside of her. “Because right now, I can't tell the difference between justice and revenge. Between survival and becoming a monster.”
I kneel in front of her, careful not to touch her with my bloodied hands. “The monster is Terrance. The monster is men like Vincent who sell women like cattle. You're not the monster, Charlotte. You're the survivor.”
“A survivor who wants to watch her ex-husband burn,” her voice cracks on the last word. “A survivor who felt satisfaction watching that man die.”
“Good.” The word comes out harder than I intended. “He deserved worse than what he got.”
She flinches, and I realize I'm proving her point. The violence in me, the hunger for retribution—it's exactly what she's afraid of becoming.
“We need to leave Vegas,” I say, changing tactics. “Tonight. Go back to Upland, where we have backup, where you'll be protected while we figure out our next move.”
Her head snaps up. “Running again.”
“Regrouping,” I correct, but the distinction feels thin even to me. “There's a difference.”
“Is there?” She echoes my earlier words back at me, bitter and hollow. “Because it feels like the same thing I've done before. Pack a bag, disappear in the night, hope the monster doesn't find me.”
“This isn't the same?—”
“Isn't it?” She stands abruptly, pacing to the window. “You're asking me to trust you, to follow you to another place where I'll be dependent on strangers for protection. Where I'll have no control, no say in what happens next.”
The accusation stings because there is some truth in it. I am asking her to give up control, to let me make decisions about her life. But what's the alternative? Let her walk out that door and straight into Terrance's hands?
“Upland isn't a prison, Charlotte. It's a sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary.” She tastes the word like poison. “Funny how a sanctuary always looks like a cage when you're the one inside it.”
I push to my feet. “You keep saying 'let me take you' like I don't have a choice.” Charlotte turns from the window, arms wrapped around herself. “Like I'm cargo to be moved, not a person making decisions.”
I've been so focused on keeping her alive that I've forgotten what she's fighting for—the right to choose her own path, make her own mistakes. The very freedom Terrance tried to steal from her.
“You always have a choice,” I say, forcing the words past the knot in my throat. “But I need you to understand what you're choosing between.”
I step closer, careful to keep enough distance that she doesn't feel cornered. Blood drips from my knuckles onto the hardwood floor, marking the space between us like a boundary line.
“Choice one, you walk away. Go wherever you want. But Terrance will find you. Not might—will. And when he does, after what happened with Vincent, he won't just hurt you. He'll destroy you, inch by fucking inch.”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't look away.
“Choice two, you come with us to Upland. You stay under our protection while we locate Terrance and bring an end to this. Permanently.”
“And then what? After it's over—if it's ever over—what happens to me?”
The question catches me off guard. Do I want Charlotte? Yes, but my wants and needs put her in danger. If we make it out of this alive, how fair is it to bring her into our world? Maybe Minny was right after all.
“Whatever you want,” I say finally, the words scraping my throat raw. “You go back to your life. Start over somewhere new. Find whatever makes you happy.”
Something flickers across her face—disappointment, maybe. Or resignation.
“Without you.”
It's not a question, but I answer anyway, “If that's what you want.”
She laughs, a sharp, broken sound that cuts through the tension. “What I want. As if I even know anymore.” Her fingers trace patterns on the windowsill. “I wanted a quiet life. A small house by the beach. Safety. Anonymity. Now I'm standing in a room with a man who just killed someone for me, planningmy escape from a human trafficking ring run by his motorcycle club.”
“Not my club,” I correct automatically.
