Page 52 of The Convict Gets His Girl

"Today was the worst," she continued, her voice dropping as tears rolled down her cheek unheeded. "The most fucked up day in a while. Sometimes it's like that, though. Not just difficult, but soul-crushing because no amount of skill or compassion can change the outcome."

"Days when death wins, fierce and brutal," he murmured, staring out the window. "It was like that in the first prison I was in too."

She sucked in a breath, but didn't look at him. "Were you—in danger there?" she asked softly.

"Yeah," he whispered, closing his eyes against the memories. The truck's engine hummed, a steady counterpoint to their unspoken understanding.

"What happened?" she asked.

He tensed and shook his head. "About what you'd imagine, I suppose. New guy, runt of the pack, a teenager thrown in with the adults."

He watched her profile in the reflection of the window, seeing the thin line of her mouth, the way her shoulders carried unexpressed grief and dismay. They were both carrying weight right now—different pasts, different traumas, but equally heavy.

He didn't want to think about those days anymore. Thankfully, the truck rolled to a stop. Gravel crunched beneath tires, then silence.

Chase's hand was already on the door handle, ready to escape this day from hell and the memories that haunted him. "Thanks for the ride," he said, voice flat. "See you around."

His boots hit the ground, and the engine shut off. He paused, ready to slam the door, but confused on why she'd killed the truck. Something held him in that suspended moment, a flicker of some emotion that broke through his pain. The cab was charged with an electric tension he couldn't name as he looked at her.

Jewel didn't move, didn't look at him.

Her knuckles gripped the steering wheel so tightly they'd gone white, bloodless, and her other hand was frozen on the ignition. Beneath her carefully controlled surface was a woman who was hurting just as much as he. Her tongue darted out, quick and nervous, wetting her lower lip.

Chase watched the movement, caught between staying and going, between comfort and distance. His hand remained on the door, open and waiting.

Her voice cracked when she spoke, surprising even himself. "Can… can I stay here tonight? I'd really like to not face my dad right now, and you're—this is a safe space."

The words hung between them, vulnerable. Raw. A request that was more than just about a place to sleep—it was about sanctuary, about not having to be strong for just one night.

Had she almost admitted thathewas her safe space? Hope flared, brief and brilliant before he stomped it out. This wasn't about him; it was about her not wanting to face her dad.

"He'll make you feel bad about losing the mare and foal?" His tone was knowing, protective. "It's not your fault, you know."

It wasn't a question, but a simple statement, a shield.

"I know," she said, closing her eyes and sighing in defeat. "I know, but I still feel like a failure. Can I?—"

"Yeah," he said softly, unable to deny this woman a thing. The single word was a lifeline, a promise to care for her forever, if she'd just take it. More than just permission to stay, it was an offering of understanding, acceptance, and something deeper.

He just wanted to wrap her into his arms, carry her inside, and hold her all night. Her shoulders were rounded, not with her normal strength but with the heaviness of failure. God, how he wanted to restore her joy, her confidence, her peace.

Her eyes, when they finally met his, were dark with pain and understanding. There was no pity about his past. Just pure, hard-earned empathy, shared pain, and the very human need to not be alone in the darkness.

He nodded and shut the door, striding up to the cabin. She followed him inside, a small bag in her hand that he ignored.

As he closed the front door of the cabin behind her, the energy between them shifted. She almost seemed to pause, as if she just wanted to be near him, but that couldn't possibly be it. There was no way she craved him the way he craved her.

The space between them filled with a kind of raw intimacy that had nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with shared pain. Two people who had seen too much, lost too much, and understood each other in a language deeper than words.

Two people who craved solace in the other's arms.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the idea. She'd said last weekend that she didn't want him. He wasn't good enough, not that she'd said it.

He glanced at the cabin as if through her eyes. It was sparse but functional. Boots by the door, a jacket draped over one of the two chairs around the small square table under the window, his laptop closed on the corner. Pale blue and green curtains were open, so he moved to shut them, dropping the blackout ones.

The couch sat in front of the fireplace, a low coffee table in front of it. On the other side of it sat his dresser and small closet beside the bed, with the door to the bathroom on the other side of it.

To the left of the door sat the small kitchen, just a refrigerator, a sink, a microwave, stove, and oven, and a few cabinets and drawers, all in one row.

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