Page 53 of Broken Trails
I swing a leg over the Ducati, twist the key, and it growls awake. No gloves. No helmet. Just one thought pounding in my skull.
I need to get to her.
The engine’s still ticking when I cut it, heat bleeding into the air. I’m already moving, boots biting into the ground with every step. My chest feels like it’s been cinched tight—not from the ride, but from the stillness waiting ahead.
Her place sits quiet. No movement through the windows. No hint of life inside. I jump most of the steps at once and wrap my hand around the door handle. It gives under my grip.
Unlocked.
A flicker of unease crawls through me. Why the hell would she leave it like that? For a second, my mind goes to all the wrong places, but then I figure she must’ve left it for me.
I step over the threshold. “Zoe?”
Movement catches my eye where the cat suddenly pads out from the hallway. She stops at my boots, lets out a sharp little meow. I crouch to scoop her up, and sure enough, she claws at my forearm on instinct before settling in, a low purr vibrating through her ribs.
I step further inside, still cradling the cat against my chest. I move faster now, my boots hitting the hallway floor in a rhythm that’s too loud for the quiet around me. Three doors break the narrow passage, but I don’t bother checking the first two—I’malready heading for the one that’s cracked open just enough for sound to slip through. I push it wider.
The bedroom is dim, washed in a thin spill of afternoon light that filters through half-drawn curtains. And at the foot of the large bed, on the floor, is Zoe.
She’d curled in on herself, knees tucked to her chest, with her arms wrapped tightly around them. Her face is hidden, buried, but the tremor in her shoulders gives her away. She’s crying.
A shudder rolls through her, and her breathing’s too quick, shallow enough that my own lungs feel tight just watching. For a moment, I just stand there. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just take in the sight of her and feel something inside me fracture.
Because this isn’t just crying. This isn’t just sadness.
“Zoe…” I murmur softly, yet I get no response. I ease down into a crouch beside her, keeping my distance, wanting to give her space. She doesn’t react, doesn’t even look up. But when I reach out—just a hand to her shoulder—she jolts.
No, her whole body recoils.
The fuck?
My hand pulls back immediately. That wasn’t a surprise—it was fear. Learned fear. The kind that’s carved into someone over years. My chest tightens. Someone’s done this to her, and the thought burns through me like acid.
I try again, my voice lower now. “Hey. It’s me, Michael. You’re safe. Alright? You’re not alone.”
Still, I get no answer. Her sobs have dulled to a faint tremble, her breathing now broken into shallow wheezes. She’s somewhere far away, trapped in a place I can’t see—but I recognise it.
I’ve watched Harrison disappear into this same darkness more times than I can remember. I’ve learned how to speak into it. How to reach a hand through without pulling too hard.
“I won’t touch you unless you tell me I can. But I’m not going anywhere.”
Her arms shift, just barely, but enough to tell me she’s listening. I shift so I’m directly in front of her, staying low. “Zoe… breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” I exaggerate the motion, slow and deliberate. At first, I get nothing, but after a moment, her breathing visibly slows. It’s barely noticeable, but she finally mimics the motion.
A shallow breath in. A fractured one out.
Good.
“Can I touch you? Just your hand.”
She nods, and when her face tilts up, the sight cracks something deep inside me. Jesus.
Her eyes are red and swollen, her cheeks are blotched, that familiar spark stripped away. There’s no trace of the Zoe I know at this moment—not the firecracker who claps back when I tease her, not the woman who showed up in heels and gave me shit for taking my time with her car. What’s left is the shell of someone who looks as if they’ve been holding everything in for too long and has finally cracked under the weight
I take her hand gently, wrapping my fingers around hers. She’s cold. Her grip is weak. But it’s there. Her fingers curl tighter around mine after a second. “You’re alright,” I tell her. “I’ve got you.”
And I mean it. I shift closer, lowering myself beside her until our shoulders almost touch. Her fingers are still wrapped in mine, and after a moment, she leans into me. It’s the lightest press of her weight, but it’s enough that I feel it. I let my head rest back against the edge of the bed, keeping my hand around hers like an anchor.
If someone’s ever laid a hand on this woman… If someone’s ever made her afraid of touch, of comfort, of asking for help, I’ll fucking end them. I’ve seen what trauma does. I’ve livedin a house built out of it. I’ve loved people splintered by it. And now, watching her—this proud, guarded, stubborn woman—completely undone by something I can’t fix… It guts me.
