Page 58 of Welded Defender
“She thinks she’s protecting us,” I rasp.
“She thinks wrong,” Becket says, his tone flat.
I nod, jaw so tight it aches. The note crackles when I fold it, once, twice, into the smallest square I can make. I tuck it into my pocket like it might actually stop me from chasing her.
But my body is already humming with the need to move. To fix. To find.
Because safer without me?
Like hell.
CHAPTER 31
Marcy
The phone buzzes again on the nightstand, its vibration sending it skittering half an inch across the polished wood. I don’t look. It’s been buzzing on and off for two days—missed calls from Nova, Wes, even Becket once, which tells me they’re getting desperate. The screen illuminates the dim room for three seconds before fading to black. Landon only texted once, the day after I left. The notification sits there unopened, a small blue dot that weighs on me like a stone. Just seeing his name on the screen makes my stomach clench into a tight, painful knot. I’ve read the preview a hundred times without opening it:
Landon : Let me know you’re safe.
Safe.
Four simple letters that somehow hold everything I can’t give him.
My finger hovers over the screen, trembling. My chest constricts until each breath feels like drawing air through a straw. Even here, four hours away, I jolt awake gasping, convinced I’ve heard Brett’s truck rumbling up the driveway.Yesterday, a man in the grocery store wore the same cologne, and I bolted, abandoning a full cart in aisle seven. The memory of Brett’s face when he said Landon’s name—that ice-cold stare—plays on repeat behind my eyelids. The same look he wore before putting his fist through our apartment wall, before shattering my phone against the kitchen tile.
So I stay hidden. Curled up in my aunt’s spare bedroom with its faded quilt and daisy wallpaper, pretending that shutting out the world means I can control it.
The door creaks open, and Aunt Rose peeks in. Her graying hair is twisted into a messy bun with a pencil stuck through it like always. She balances two mugs of tea in one hand and a plate of toast in the other.
“Thought you could use this,” she says, slipping inside.
I sit up reluctantly, pulling the blanket tighter around me. “Thanks.”
She sets the tray on the dresser and hands me a mug. Steam curls between us, carrying the scent of chamomile and honey. She settles on the edge of the bed, her weight making the mattress dip slightly. Her fingers trace the faded pattern on the quilt—back and forth, back and forth. The clock on the nightstand ticks steadily. A car hums past outside. She blows on her tea, takes a careful sip, then meets my eyes over the rim of her mug. One eyebrow arches just slightly.
“When are you going to talk about it?”
I stare into the amber depths of my tea. “About what?”
Her brows lift—patient but unwavering. “About why you showed up on my doorstep looking like a ghost, shaking so hard I thought you’d collapse in my arms. About why you left that boy without a word.”
The room blurs at the edges. I blink hard, heat crawling up my neck. “I just needed?—”
“Marcy.” Her voice drops to barely above a whisper, but I freeze like she’s shouted my name. “Keep your secrets if you need to. But stop lying to yourself.” She taps two fingers against my knee. “Running only works until your legs give out.”
My throat constricts. I set the mug down before it can slosh over. “He was there. Brett.”
Her face barely changes, but I catch the flash of steel in her eyes. “At the shop?”
I nod. My fingers find a loose thread in the blanket, winding it tighter and tighter until my fingertip turns purple.
“Brett showed up, demanding I come home with him like I hadn’t already said no a thousand times. Like this past year meant nothing.” I shake my head. “Landon stepped in. He—he punched him.”
Aunt Rose hums softly. “Good for Landon.”
But I’m already shaking my head. “No. You don’t understand. Brett threatened him. Said his face would be the last thing Landon ever saw—” The words feel like glass in my throat. “And he meant every word.”
For a long moment, only the hallway clock fills the silence. Rose’s fingers go still on the quilt, resting on a faded flower.
