I sit back on the couch and check my phone.
Lexi walks around, takes a sip of water and stands uncomfortably.
“What?” I say.
She asks, “You’re from London, right?”
“What about it?”
She takes a long drink, then sets the glass down with deliberate care. “Let’s go there.”
I huff a laugh, genuinely surprised. “What, tonight?”
“Someday.”
The word hangs in the air between us—someday, like there’s a future beyond this moment, beyond this war we’re all caught in. Like we might actually survive long enough to have choices instead of just consequences.
“Nothing left there to go back to.”
“Then it’s a clean slate,” she says simply, like it’s that easy. Like I didn’t just fuck her in the ass and threaten her life.
I want to tell her she’s wrong. Want to explain that London isn’t just a place I left—it’s the place that made me what I am. The place where I learned that the world is divided into predators and prey, and the only way to survive is to make sure you’re never the one bleeding out in an alley. The place where I learned that love is just another weapon people use against you.
But I don’t say any of that. I just watch her.
She settles on the couch beside me, curling up with her legs tucked under her like she might fall asleep right there. Shedoesn’t ask permission, doesn’t maintain careful distance. Just exists in my space like she belongs there.
I don’t move. Don’t reach for her again or say something that would shatter this fragile moment. I just watch the rain sliding down the windows, listening to her breathing gradually slow and even out.
I think about all the places I’ve run from—London, Manchester, Dover. All the safe houses and temporary beds and nameless cities where I stayed just long enough to disappear again. All the people I’ve left behind without looking back, without regret, without anything resembling attachment.
And somehow, she’s the only one who ever made me want to stay.
The realization should terrify me. Should send me running like every other time I’ve felt something close to this. But I don’t move. Don’t plan my exit or catalog the quickest routes out of here.
I just sit in the dark with a girl who should hate me, watching the storm pass, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel the need to burn everything down just to feel alive.
Maybe that’s growth.
Or maybe it’s just another way to destroy myself.
Either way, I’m not taking her to London because I’m not leaving this place yet.
42
Revan
The safehouse feels too quiet after everyone leaves. Koa’s taken Axel home. Lexi’s off-grid with Atticus at the other safehouse that I’m trying not to think about. And I’m left here, cleaning up the bullshit after my junkie father like I’ve been doing my entire life.
The phone buzzes on the table. Gilbert’s name flashes across the screen, insistent and demanding. I stare at it for three rings, jaw clenching tighter with each vibration. Then I answer, already knowing this conversation is going to cost me something.
“You’re not going to see her,” I say before he can speak. “So don’t even ask.”
There’s a pause on the other end—a breath, a beat of consideration. Then Gilbert’s voice comes through, steady and cold as winter.
“Vincent is dead.”
The words should feel like victory. Should feel like liberation. But all I feel is the weight of what comes next, because men like Gilbert don’t deliver news without expecting payment.
