Page 17 of Welded Defender
Becket nods once and climbs into his truck. “I’ll tell Wes to save you some dinner.”
I watch his taillights vanish into the night. Above me, the apartment window glows warmly through the blinds. Becket’s right. I’ve tripped over more that my share of broken romances. It’s been two years since my last real relationship. Two years since I swore off getting pulled into someone else’s chaos again. Am I about to slip back into that pattern? Do I even care?
I climb into my cab, the engine rumbling beneath me. One last glance at the window, soft light spilling into the night. Then I pull away, the question spinning around in my head as the garage’s neon buzz fades behind me.
CHAPTER 10
Marcy
The hazard lights flash weakly against the falling snow, red pulses swallowed by darkness before they reach the tree-line. My car sits dead on the shoulder, hood steaming faintly like breath in the bitter cold, wisps that vanish upward into the void. My own breath fogs in front of me, white and thin as cigarette smoke, my fingers aching from death-gripping the steering wheel.
I pop the hood and climb out, boots slipping on the icy gravel that crunches like broken glass beneath my feet. The air slices through my cable-knit sweater as if it were tissue paper, freezing the delicate skin inside my nostrils with each inhale. My fingers, already stiff and clumsy, fumble with the hood latch. Everything is too quiet—no cars, no wind, just the slow blink of my hazards painting the snowbanks crimson every three seconds, each flash illuminating crystalline snowflakes suspended in the darkness.
I should call someone. I should grab my phone. But my hands tremble as I reach toward my bag, the leather strap slick with melting snow. Before I can grasp it, headlights sweep across the road, twin beams cutting through the darkness like searchlights, casting long shadows of my legs across thepristine snow. Relief floods me, instant and fierce, warming my frozen limbs from within, loosening the knot of dread that had settled between my shoulder blades. Landon. It has to be.
The truck slows, tires crunching over ice like bones breaking. The engine growls low and feral as it pulls onto the shoulder behind me, exhaust billowing in ghostly clouds that hang suspended in the frigid air. My pulse eases for a second, shoulders dropping—until the door opens with a metallic groan that echoes across the empty highway, a sound like a rusted gate to somewhere I shouldn't go.
It isn't Landon.
"Car trouble?" Brett's voice is warm honey, almost amused, as he steps into the wash of his headlights.
My lungs freeze mid-breath. "Stay away from me."
He clicks his tongue against his teeth, the sound sharp in the silence. His head tilts, lips curving upward at one corner as he takes one slow, measured step toward me.
"Leave, Brett." The words barely escape my lips, thin as the vapor of my breath.
”Come on, Marcy.” The smile vanishes. His jaw tightens, a muscle flickering beneath stubble. “That grease monkey with the rusty wrench? You think he can protect you?” He laughs, the sound bitter. “No one can keep us apart. You should know that by now.”
My heel slides backward. Ice cracks beneath my boot.
His fingers brush my wrist, five points of heat that sear through flesh. I jerk away but the air thickens around my limbs, turning each movement to molasses.
”Don’t fight me.” His face hovers inches from mine, cologne flooding my nostrils—sickly sweet, the scent that clung to my pillowcase for weeks after I ran. He lunges, his hands clamping around my throat.
”Stop—” The word scrapes my throat. “Please?—”
His fingers clamp down harder. Red light pulses across his face, stretching, blurring. Snowflakes swirl into white noise. My chest heaves but finds no air. The darkness at the edges creeps inward, inward?—
I bolt upright, my lungs seizing. The sheets twist like ropes around my calves, cold where they’re soaked through. My fingers dig into the mattress, searching for gravel, finding cotton instead. Three blinks to adjust to darkness. The streetlight outside cuts an orange slice through the blinds, painting bars across my trembling hands.
The familiar water stain on the ceiling materializes as my eyes adjust. The radiator ticks in the corner. A car door slams somewhere outside, and I flinch so hard my teeth click together.
Three breaths. Four. Five. I touch the nightstand—real wood, real lamp, real clock reading 5:17. My fingertips trace the small chip on the corner where I bumped it moving in. Here. Safe. Not there.
My pulse hammers against my palm when I press it to my neck. The skin there feels tender, as though phantom fingers had truly wrapped around it. I swallow and wince at the raw scrape. Nightmares aren’t new. But this one felt sharper. Crueler. Like he’d found a way through the walls I’d built.
With a groan, I push myself upright. The bathroom mirror reflects a pale version of me, shadows under my eyes so dark they look like bruises. I splash cold water on my face until it stings, but it doesn’t wash away the heaviness clinging to my chest.
By 6:00, I’m heading downstairs. The steps creak under my boots. The garage greets me with its familiar scents—motor oil,rubber, faint dark roast coffee lingering from yesterday. Quiet. Still.
But not empty.
One bay light hums against the gray morning. Joon crouches at the workbench, organizing a tray of wrenches with methodical precision. His hair’s tied back, loose strands slipping free to brush his cheek. A half-empty mug steams beside him.
He glances up as I step into the lobby. His gaze sweeps over me—messy hair, pale face, the tight way I’m holding myself. “You’re early,” he says softly. Not accusing. Just noticing.
“Couldn’t sleep.” My voice comes out rough.
