Page 30 of Welded Defender
CHAPTER 17
Landon
The snow’s coming down heavier now, the kind that sticks to your lashes and melts into your collar. The fairground behind us glows warm under its web of lights, laughter carrying faintly across the town square. Out here it’s quieter—just the crunch of boots and the whisper of snow piling up around us.
Marcy walks beside me, her scarf pulled high against her cheeks, strands of hair catching stray flakes. She’s got that look she wore at the fire—softer, lighter. Like she forgot, for a couple of hours, about the weight she’s been carrying.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this content. Maybe never.
Her hand’s still in mine. I don’t know if she noticed, or if she just hasn’t thought to pull away. I’m not asking. Every nerve in my body wants to hold onto it, wants to keep that warmth threaded between us as long as possible.
“You survived skating,” I say, breaking the silence.
She lets out a puff of laughter. “Barely. My legs are going to mutiny tomorrow.”
“You did good.”
“I clung to you like a life preserver.”
“Still counts,” I say. “Besides, that’s what I’m here for.”
She glances at me, her eyes catching the light from a passing car. Something shifts in my chest—like I’d skate her across a thousand rinks if it meant she kept looking at me like that.
We turn the corner toward the garage, its sign dim under the falling snow. My truck sits out front, coated in white, and just beyond it?—
I freeze.
A dark sedan idles near the curb.
Marcy’s fingers turn to ice in mine. Her pulse hammers against my wrist where our hands connect. The soft smile she wore seconds ago vanishes like it never existed.
I don’t need to ask. I know.
Brett.
The headlights flare. The engine growls, deep and threatening. Tires spin, kicking up slush before catching grip. The car lurches forward, fishtails across the empty street, then accelerates away. Red taillights blur through the falling snow, growing smaller and smaller until darkness swallows them whole.
The silence cuts like winter air.
Marcy’s fingers go slack in mine, then clench so tight I feel her nails bite into my palm. Her other hand presses against her stomach, fingers splayed like she’s trying to hold something in. Each breath comes quick and shallow, little puffs that vanish before they’re fully formed.
“Hey.” I step between her and the empty street, blocking her view. My boots crunch in the snow.
She stares right through me, pupils blown wide, the whites of her eyes catching the garage’s fluorescent glow. A car passes, and she flinches at the headlights.
“Marcy.” I squeeze her hand, run my thumb across her knuckles. They’re ice cold. “He’s gone. You’re with me now.”
Slowly, like it costs her everything, her gaze drags up to mine. Fear carves through her expression—raw, unhidden.
She hasn’t moved, hasn’t breathed more than shallow gasps since the car peeled away. Her scarf’s pulled high on her cheeks, her hands tight fists at her sides, but she’s shaking. Not from the cold.
“He—” Her voice breaks, brittle, sharp. “He knows—he knows where I am.”
My gut clenches. I want to scoop her up, throw her into the truck, and drive until this town is nothing but a bad memory in the rearview. But running isn’t living. She’s already done too much of that.
So I force my voice steady. Low. Certain. “Listen to me. You’ve got two options tonight. You come home with me, or I stay here with you. That’s it. I’m not leaving you on your own while he’s circling the block.”
Her eyes jerk to mine, glassy and wide. I can see the tug-of-war happening behind them—her instinct to keep me safe warring with the bone-deep fear of being alone.
