“We should get moving,” Cade says at last, regret in his voice. I see the struggle on his face: he likes me, but he doesn’t want to. I take a tiny, mean pleasure in this.
“I’m not running.” I roll onto my stomach and prop my chin with my hands. “You know that, right? I’m not going back, but I’m also not going to hide in a fallout shelter until November. I need to feel like I have a choice in my own life, even if everyone expects me to fall in line.”
His eyebrows do their skeptical dance. “We can’t win a war and a press cycle, Delilah. Not with what’s coming.”
Anger rises in me—not just at Cade, but at my father and the whole system that’s made me feel so tangled. I stretch on purpose, arching my back, and watch him watch me. "I'm not planning to be their dancing monkey," I say. "I just want to write my own script, just once. I need to know what it’s like to act on my own desires before everything is decided for me."
Cade shifts onto his elbow, the sheet sliding down to reveal his chest, marked with the evidence of last night's hunger—my handiwork. "And what does that script say?" he asks, his voice soft but knowing, like he's already read the ending to this story and is just waiting for me to catch up.
Outside, a car door slams. I freeze, listen. It’s just a family, their kids shrieking with the unfiltered joy of children forced into travel by disinterested parents. I exhale. “I want to see your place,” I say, surprising even myself.
Cade doesn’t react, not visibly, but something unlocks behind his eyes. A smile ghosts across his lips. “Thought you said the Hill Country was for hayseeds and retirees.”
“It is,” I scoff, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. “But I’m evolving. And besides… I’m dying to see what kind of bedspread you call home.”
He grins, and the smile is so rare it surprises me. I press my hand to my chest to steady myself. He gets up and heads to the bathroom, moving easily in the gray morning light. When I hear the shower, I sink back into the pillows, smiling to myself. I want to hold onto this small piece of life that feels like it’s mine. But my phone is already buzzing with news alerts and missed calls, trouble building just out of sight.
Out of self-hatred or curiosity, I check the screen. My father’s team has not disappointed: “URGENT: ELDER MUNRO REPORTED MISSING. APB ISSUED…” and a string of increasingly desperate texts from various campaign managers and family friends, most of which run together in my mind into a single, high-pitched whine. I click open the browser and, right on cue, the top trending headline: “Governor’s Daughter Abducted by Ranch-Hand Bodyguard, Sources Say.” I read it looking for some trace of my real motives, but I find only twisted versions of the truth.
I nearly laugh, but it comes out rough and angry instead. Cade is right—there’s no fair fight with the national news cycle. It’s all a carnival, and I’m the oddity in the center ring.
I close the browser and roll onto my back, staring at the plain white ceiling, wishing it meant something. I listen to the water pipes and the faint smell of Cade’s shampoo from the bathroom.He’s humming a low, old country song. I let it ground me. For a few minutes, I just focus on now: the ache in my body, the burn on my lips, and the hunger in my stomach.
When Cade emerges from the shower—hair wet, bare-chested, a towel slung around his hips—I grant myself a slow, appreciative perusal. He knows I’m looking. He smiles, a little bashful, but there’s something triumphant in the way he stands, shoulders squared as if he’s finally claimed territory that was rightfully his all along.
“Your turn,” he quips, tossing me a fresh towel. “But don’t forget: no more than five minutes, or the hot water’s gone.”
“I’m not sure I can do anything in five minutes,” I protest, sauntering past him, flicking his bicep as I pass. He catches my wrist in his huge hand, tugs me in, and plants a kiss on my temple so gentle it makes my knees weak. Then he lets go, as if nothing happened. As if I haven’t just been set on fire from crown to toes.
In the bathroom, I strip off the wrinkled sheet. I examine the bruises wreathing my ribs and hips. Some are from last night’s scuffle in the hallway. Others, I realize with satisfaction, are made by Cade’s fingers. There’s a certain satisfaction in having evidence that I survived everything that tried to knock me down.
I shower in exactly six minutes and three seconds, just to prove I can. I towelI shower in just over six minutes, just to prove I can. I dry off and wrap myself in Cade’s flannel, breathing in his scent. My own clothes are a mess, so I put on my dirty jeans, one of his t-shirts, and pull my hair back. When I come out, Cade is already dressed, standing by the window in a black t-shirt and faded jeans, arms crossed as he watches the parking lot. His protectiveness is part of why I trust him to help me take back control.ough me at how serious he looks, scanning like an apex predator.
“Not yet,” he mutters, though the muscles in his jaw twitch with alertness. “But I’d bet fifty bucks we have an hour, tops.”
“Let’s make it worth their while,” I say, and he grins.
We pack up, which for me just means putting my phone in my pocket. Cade has an old navy rucksack. We tip the desk clerk with a twenty and a smile, then head to the truck, which looks even rougher in daylight than it did last night. Cade unlocks my door first. A week ago, I would have rolled my eyes, but today I let it make me feel cared for.
“Where are we going?” I ask, and Cade puts the truck in gear, gunning the engine with a throaty growl.
“If you’re tired of running and want to go home, I’ll take you home.
We drive through the foothills for an hour, sunlight breaking through the clouds and lighting up the hills. I put my feet on the dash and sing along to the radio; Cade doesn’t stop me because there’s no one else to hear. I put my phone away and let everything else fade—the life my father built, the safehouse where they kept me. That life turns into background noise. Right now, all that matters is this: the hills passing by, Cade’s steady hand on the wheel, and the way he says my name.
An hour out, we pause for gas. Cade disappears inside to pay, and I stretch, leaning on the door. Heat rises from the blacktop; somewhere, a cicada drones its endless, urgent cry. I close my eyes and feel the sun warm my face.
“You good?” Cade is beside me, offering water and trail mix.
“Never better,” I tell him, and it’s true.
We reach Valor Springs by early afternoon. It’s smaller than I remembered, with faded storefronts and picket fences warmed by the sun. Since coming back from Austin, I’ve been stuck on my parents’ estate, and I’d forgotten what a real town feels like. Cade points out landmarks as we drive—"Hank’s Hardware, been there since '52," "First Baptist, where Miss Evelyn stillplays that out-of-tune organ." People tip their hats to him, glancing at me without recognizing me. For the first time in years, I feel invisible in a good way.
Cade’s ranch sits on a low hill overlooking the valley. The big house is sturdy but worn, with peeling paint, dirty windows, and ivy climbing one corner. There are corrals with horses, a few ranch hands working with cattle, and a small vegetable patch overgrown with weeds. There are no cameras or electric fences, just real land and hard work. It’s imperfect and real, and I want to kneel in the dirt and kiss it.
“You live here alone?” I ask as we unload. Cade shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Was supposed to be temporary,” he says, leading me up the creaking wooden steps. “But somehow three years went by.”