Hard.
Immediate.
Unwelcome.
Salem’s gaze drops, then lifts again, like she felt it too—felt the pull, the spark, the way we keep circling the edge of something we shouldn’t touch yet.
She swallows, and I let go of her hand before I do something stupid.
“Come on,” I say, voice rough. “Let’s get you warm.”
Salem nods and follows me back toward the trail, dripping and shivering and alive. And as we walk back to Rainmaker, my mind is already building that list. It isn’t because I think fun will fix what she went through. But because every laugh she manages, every moment she feels like herself again, is a piece of her I’m helping her steal back. And I’m selfish enough to want to be there for every single one.
NINE
SALEM
By the time we make it back to Rainmaker, my skin is pink from the cold and my teeth are one shiver away from falling out. Ozzy’s barely wet anymore. He’s the kind of man whose body seems to run hotter than everyone else’s, like he’s powered by spite and caffeine and the promise of violence for people who deserve it.
Me?
I look like a drenched rat who lost a fight with a creek.
“I’m fine,” I announce the second we step onto the porch, mostly because I can feel his eyes on me, cataloging every tremble like it’s a code he’s trying to crack.
Ozzy opens the door and gestures me inside. “You’re shivering.”
“I’m… vibrating with joy.”
He snorts, and that little sound does something to my chest. It still surprises me how quickly my body believes him when he laughs. Like it hears it and goes,Oh. We’re allowed to be human right now.
The safehouse greets us with warmth. Soft lights. That clean antiseptic smell. The quiet hum of heat through vents. It’s calm in a way that feels almost suspicious, like peace is a trap that snaps shut when you relax.
Ozzy toes off his boots and glances at me. “Go change. Hot shower. Or I’m going to start a fire.”
“In the fireplace?” I ask.
“In the world,” he says, dead serious.
I pause, looking at him.
He holds my gaze like he means it, like he’s already made a promise to whatever deity handles vengeance.
My throat tightens. I hate the way my eyes sting at the edges. “Okay,” I whisper, because I’m not going to cry over warmth and concern and a man who treats my safety like it’s his religion.
I head toward the bathroom, stripping off wet clothes like they’re guilt. My muscles ache in a way that feels good. Like a way that reminds me I’m alive. I turn on the water, waiting for it to heat up.
I stare at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing me. I’ve lost probably ten pounds of weight I couldn’t afford to lose. There’s a few fresh bruises that have bloomed across my back. Probably from the escape. Probably from not having the right nutrients.
Ugh. I hate the men who took me.
My minds wanders to the other women who were there. So many lives lost to the underbelly of this trafficking ring. I want to find them. Free them. And then burn that building down to the ground.
I step into the shower, letting the hot water scald my skin. It feels so good. My body comes alive as I think about Ozzy. So big and strong. The mohawk and neck tattoo do it for me. Who knew I’d be into that sort of thing. But it’s more than that. It’s not just about the way he looks. It’s about the way he makes me feel.
Safe. In a way I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. Sure, I was safe living with my drunk mother. Or was I?
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this safe in all of my pathetic excuse of a life.