Page 89 of Only Mine
The sound that escapes him is one of pure relief, mixed with something that might be a sob. “Thank Christ. Where are you?”
“Maple Creek Trail. About half a mile in, at the wooden bridge.”
“Don’t move. I’m coming to get her.”
“Saint, wait?—”
But he’s already hung up.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and sit on the fallen log, pulling Ivy onto my lap. She burrows against me like she’s trying to absorb my essence through her skin.
“Is Papa mad?” she asks in a quiet voice.
“He’s scared,” I assure her, “and maybe a little panicky.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“Never.” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “But you can’t run away again, okay? It’s dangerous.”
Ivy sighs dramatically. “Grown-up rules are stupid.”
Heavy, rapid footsteps on the trail cut our conversation short. My heart lurches into my throat as Saint thunders around the bend, moving with a single-minded focus that makes my pulse trip.
He looks like hell. Dark shadows cup his eyes and his jaw sports several days of stubble. His clothes are rumpled like he slept in them—or didn’t sleep at all. The sleeves of his button-down are rolled haphazardly, revealing the tattoos I traced with my fingertips four nights ago.
Ivy stiffens in my arms, pressing closer to me.
“Papa’s really mad,” she whispers.
Saint reaches us in four long strides, dropping to his knees in front of us. “Ivy. Don’t youever?—”
His voice breaks, and he pulls her from my lap into a crushing embrace.
Saint buries his face in her hair, his shoulders trembling once before he locks them rigid again.
I rise to my feet, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. Saint’s eyes finally lift to mine over Ivy’s head, and for one unguarded moment, he lets me see everything. His relief, exhaustion, and a shine that might be tears before he blinks, and the shutters come down.
“Miss Wrenley didn’t know I was coming,” Ivy says. “Don’t be mad at her.”
Saint sets Ivy down but keeps his hand firmly on her shoulder. “Go wait by that big oak tree. I need to talk to Miss Wrenley.”
“But—”
“Now, Ivy.”
She throws me one last worried glance before trudging to the tree, just far enough away that she can’t hear us but close enough that Saint can watch her.
The moment she’s out of earshot, Saint turns to me, tension vibrating through every fiber of his body.
“She could have been kidnapped. Hit by a car. Fallen into the creek.” His voice is low, controlled, but with an undercurrent of something volcanic. “Do you have any idea what it was like getting that call from the school?”
“I can imagine,” I say quietly.
“No, you can’t.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is already standing on end like he’s been doing that all morning. “She’s never run away before. Not once. Then suddenly she disappears from school to find you.”
The accusation lands like a slap. “Are you blaming me for this?”
“I’m—” He cuts himself off, jaw working. “No. I’m not.”
