Page 43 of When Love Found Us
I should wake her. Make sure she eats. Make sure she’s okay.
Instead, I set the plate down on the nightstand and get the fuck out as if something is on fire.
Leaning against the wall across from the apartment, I rub my hands down my face, exhaling slowly.
I don’t know why I’m doing this.
This isn’t me.
I’ve saved people before—pulled women out of hellholes, dragged kids away from places they never should have been. But when the job was done, it was done. I didn’t stay. I didn’t wait.
But this? This is different.
Because this isn’t just about pulling Blythe out of danger.
It’s about what happens after. Making sure she’s okay when it’s over. Making sure she recovers from years of being controlled, broken down, treated like she was nothing.
And the thought of waiting for that moment—waiting for the other shoe to drop—scares the fuck out of me.
I push through the apartment door and head downstairs, my boots hitting the worn steps harder than necessary. I need to clear my head, to focus on something I can actually control. But the moment I step into the shop, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Sanford.
I swipe the call open. “Yeah.”
His voice comes through low and tense. “We’ve got movement from Miami.”
My pulse kicks up, adrenaline spiking. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. Winston’s people are in New England. They landed in Boston, and I’m sure they’ll be sweeping the city before moving to the next place.”
I glance out the shop window, scanning the street, tracking the cars parked along the curb. Everything looks the same, but my gut tells me that won’t last.
“You think I have enough time to get her out of here?”
Sanford exhales hard. “I don’t think he’ll get there anytime soon. But he’s looking.” A pause. “His people hit up a few places in Connecticut—her parents, old contacts, friends. The usual.” Another pause, heavier this time. “He’s getting desperate.”
Desperate men do stupid things.
I scrub a hand down my face, considering my options. If Winston’s digging through her past, that means he’s running out of patience. And patience is the only thing keeping him from making a real move.
“Tell me what I don’t want to hear.”
Sanford’s voice drops. “He put money on the table, Atlas. Big money.”
The muscles in my jaw tighten. My fingers flex at my side.
He’s not just searching anymore.
He’s hunting.
And if Winston’s willing to throw cash at this, it means he’s not just trying to bring his wife home—he’s making an example out of her.
She didn’t just run.
She humiliated him.
And men like Winston don’t handle humiliation well.
