Page 64 of Welded Defender
Landon
The second the door opens, she’s there.
Marcy barrels into me so hard I stumble back a step, my arms automatically wrapping around her. She fits against me like she’s been here all along, like she belongs. Her breath comes sharp and quick, her whole body trembling, and I realize I’m shaking too.
I hold her tighter.
For a long moment, I don’t say anything. I just bury my face in her hair and breathe her in. Lavender and coffee and something softer that I’ll never be able to name. My throat closes up with everything I’ve wanted to say since the second I realized she was gone. Since I read the note she left behind. Since I spent nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if she would ever come back.
Now she’s here, in my arms, and I don’t ever want to let go.
“You came back,” I whisper.
Her voice comes muffled against my chest. “Of course I did.”
The words slice me open in the best way. I tip her chin up so I can see her face. Her eyes are red, her cheeks blotchy from crying and stress, but she’s beautiful. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I say. My thumb brushes her cheekbone. “Please—” I shake my head. “Please don’t ever do that to me again.”
Her lips twitch, tired but faintly amused. “You’re bossy when you’re scared.”
“I’m bossy all the time,” I admit, and she laughs—just barely, but it’s real. The sound goes straight through me, unlocking something tight in my chest.
The chief clears his throat. “We’re ready when you are, Marcy.”
Marcy pulls back reluctantly, and I let her, though every part of me wants to drag her closer. “They want me to give a statement,” she says, eyes steady on mine. “About Brett. About everything.”
I can only nod. Words are too small for what that means. After everything that’s happened, I should feel relieved she’s making a statement, but I know how hard this is for her. How much it takes from her to talk about Brett and his abuse.
“Go.” I cup her cheek and press a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be in the waiting area when you’re done.”
She squeezes my hand before stepping away, her shoulders squared. As I step out of the chief’s office, I realize I’ve never been prouder of anyone in my life. Not for being perfect, not for being unbreakable—but for being strong enough to be honest. Strong enough to face down what’s hunted her.
The next two hours feel like an eternity. I pace. I sit. I stand again. My fists ache from clenching them, but I can’t seem to stop. All I can think is: she’s in there reliving hell because of him, and I can’t do a damn thing but wait.
Becket stays with me. He’s been waiting for most of the day, and now he’s waiting with me. He hasn’t complained once. He’s only left to get me coffee, his murmured encouragement the only thing keeping me from storming into the Chief’s office anddragging Marcy out. I want to keep her safe, not just physically but emotionally. She deserves that. But I know this is a step in that direction, even if it feels like the exact opposite.
When the door finally opens, she steps out. She looks exhausted, pale with shadows under her eyes—but there’s something else there too. Something solid. A thread of pride running under the weariness.
She did it.
I’m on my feet before I know it, meeting her halfway. “You okay?”
“I’m… tired.” She exhales shakily, then lifts her chin. “But yeah. I think I’m okay.”
My chest feels too full. I want to scoop her up, carry her out of this place, shield her from every whisper of pain. Instead, I settle for brushing my hand down her arm until my fingers find hers. “I’m proud of you.”
The corners of her mouth tug upward. “Thanks.”
The Chief tells us they’re issuing a warrant, that Brett’s being tracked now. I catch the words, but all I can really focus on is the weight of her hand in mine.
We leave the station together, our breath clouding in front of us. The snow has left everything muffled—the crunch of our boots against the sidewalk sounds impossibly loud. My truck sits at the curb, windshield glazed with frost patterns like frozen ferns.
Marcy turns to the parking lot. “My car?—”
Becket holds his hands out for her keys. “I’ll take it back to the shop. My truck’s there anyways.”
Marcy hands over her keys without hesitation and I open the truck door for her. She thanks Becket and climbs up, my hand hovering at the small of her back as she slides in. The heat of her, even through her coat, burns against my palm.
