Chapter 69
Chapter 69
Author's POV
She ran like hell was licking at her heels. Her breath tore from her throat in jagged gasps, eyes wide and glassy, barely seeing where she was going. The night was cool but her skin burned, slick with sweat, heart pounding loud in her ears like war drums. She didn’t dare look back. Not once. She didn’t need to. Brown’s rage was enough to propel her forward, each step screaming with a desperation that only comes when you know—know—you’ve just danced with death and somehow slipped away with your soul.
Her boots pounded against cracked pavement, weaving through alleys until she burst into the open light of the main road. Neon signs blinked like watching eyes. Cars hummed by, indifferent to the storm in her bones.
And then—tires screeched.
A black car jerked to a stop right in front of her. She stumbled back with a startled gasp, ready to bolt again, until the driver’s window rolled down.
“Well, damn. That you?”
The voice was like velvet and trouble wrapped in sarcasm. Her eyes darted to the driver’s seat—and her breath hitched.
Vance.
Her damn toaster.
Of all the people to pull up at her lowest, it had to be him—Vance Keane, the man with a smirk sharp enough to draw blood and a stare that always saw more than it should.
He leaned over the passenger seat, the familiar tilt of his head saying trouble’s got a name and I like it. His hair was tousled, dark and windblown, eyes scanning her like he was flipping through a file in his head.
“You look like you just outran a wildfire. You bleeding?”
She blinked, shook her head fast. “No—I’m fine. Just… ran a lot.”
“Uh-huh.” His tone said liar so loud it could’ve punched her. “Get in.”
“I shouldn’t—”
“You’re sweating bullets and shaking like a wet cat. Either you’re having the worst cardio session of your life or someone tried to kill you. Again. Get in.”
Against her better judgment—and the screaming voice in her head warning her to not drag Vance into this—she yanked open the door and slid inside. The car smelled like leather and mint and whatever sinful cologne he always wore. Safe. Uncomfortably safe.
Vance didn’t drive off right away. He just looked at her.
“You gonna tell me what happened?”
She pressed her back into the seat, gripping her arms tightly around herself. “I’m just… hungry.”
His brow rose. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
Vance let out a slow exhale, lips twitching like he knew she was feeding him a line of premium-grade bullshit, but chose to play along.
“Well, hell. That’s a crisis if I ever heard one. Hold on, sweetheart. I know just the place.”
He hit the gas and the car surged forward into the night.
—
They pulled into a 24-hour diner that looked like it belonged in another century—chrome exterior, neon signs flickering like a heartbeat. Inside, it was mostly empty, save for a tired-looking waitress and a couple of truckers nursing black coffee and regret.
Vance slid into a booth, his eyes never leaving her as she took the opposite seat. She still hadn’t stopped shaking, trying to ground herself in the normalcy of red booths and grease-stained menus.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he said, almost lazily, as he poured them both water from the chipped jug on the table.
“I’m not lying.”
“Right. And I’m a nun.”
She almost smiled. Almost. But the weight on her chest wouldn’t budge.
Vance tilted his head, watching her over the rim of his glass like he was trying to peel back her skin and see the truth underneath. “Your pupils are blown. You’re sweating like a sinner in church. And your hand’s twitching like it’s got secrets to tell. Whatever happened back there wasn’t just a jog and a skipped meal.”
She stiffened. “Let it go, Vance.”
He leaned in, elbows on the table, his voice dropping low. “I can’t let it go. Not when you show up in the middle of the goddamn street like you’ve just crawled out of hell.”
The waitress approached with a plastic smile and a notepad. Vance straightened, voice snapping back into his usual drawl.
“She’s starving. Bring her something—anything. Hell, everything. Extra bacon. And coffee. Lots of it.”
The waitress gave him a side-eye, jotted it all down, and walked off. When she was out of earshot, Vance’s expression hardened.
“You gonna tell me what happened?”
She stared at the condensation sliding down her water glass. “If I tell you… it won’t be a conversation. It’ll be a countdown.”
“To what?”
“To a kill.”
He leaned back, folding his arms, eyes narrowing. “Are you running from someone again?”
Her silence said everything.
“Christ.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “That man has cancer. Every time you crawl free, he finds a way to pull you back.”
“I’m not crawling this time,” she whispered. “I’m walking. I’m burning the ropes.” I didn't know what he was saying but had to vibe to it.
Vance stilled. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “Then why do you still look like you’re choking on smoke?”
Because she was. Every breath still tasted like rage and whiskey and blood.
The food arrived, and she dove in like a lifeline, not tasting, just needing. Vance watched her, his expression unreadable, but his fingers tapped against the table—restless, calculating.
“You kill someone?” he asked, casually, like asking about the weather.
Her fork froze midair. Her eyes flicked up to his. He didn’t flinch.
She put the fork down.
“ No.”
No judgment. No surprise. Just a slow nod, like he’d known all along.
“For him?”
She nodded.
“You ever gonna stop dying for that man?”
The question sat between them like a grenade with the pin half-pulled.
“I don’t know what you're saying,” she whispered.
Vance’s voice was calm, but laced with fire. “Then let me teach you.”
That made her look up, sharply. “You?”
“Yeah, me. The one person who keeps showing up when you’re two breaths away from breaking. The one who gives a damn.”
She blinked fast, eyes shimmering.
“Don’t cry,” he said, reaching over to snatch a piece of bacon off her plate. “I hate it when you cry. Makes me feel like I have to do something noble.”
She laughed, breathless and raw. A real laugh. It cracked something open in her chest.
“I don’t want to drag you into this,” she said.
Vance leaned in, eyes sharp. “Too late, sweetheart. I’ve been in it since the first time you called me your toaster.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she muttered.
“You’re the one who gave me the nickname.”
“Because you’re only useful when I’m falling apart.”
He smirked. “Then burn, baby. I’m all warmed up.”
She rolled her eyes, but her shoulders dropped a little. The food, the sarcasm, Vance—it was like a balm on the wounds no one else could see. For now, it was enough.
But deep down, she knew the clock had already started ticking.
Three weeks.
And if she failed… not even Vance could save her.