Page 139 of Painted Scars
August’s voice repeats in my head.That’s the power of love, assholes.
Love. My compass. My lighthouse. The only thing fueling my escape.
I stomp on the gas, and the wagon lurches, my pulse syncing with the engine’s roar. I want to get as far from this place as possible. Forget every second of my kidnapping. Erase the lives I took to preserve mine. Rinse off the blood flakes on my skin. Blackthorn’s empire can burn from my and Spartacus’ firestorm.
The city blurs past in streaks of monochrome buildings, flashes of color, and traffic lights. I nearly spin the vehicle into a barrier when the tears start. Teeth clenched, I wrench the steering wheel straight. My breath heaves at the vibration from course-correcting.
I keep whispering the address under my breath like a prayer, hoping August meets me and is alive. Every repetition grinds into my skull, a new anti-anxiety mantra to hold onto sanity. I hear his voice wind around me, silk and gravel. Street by street, the city peels away, the noise fades, and the road narrows into cracked asphalt flanked by more warehouses along the ports. Dread hammers in my pulse at walking into another trap.
By pure miracle, I end up at the address. Paint peels from the numbers on the warehouse door. A squat building crouchesbetween large sheds. Administration, probably. I kill the engine and sit there, trembling violently.
Then he emerges from the darkness, my hero in black. My biker shadow daddy. Warpaint on his face. Black eyes and mouth. Blue eyes cold and furious, instead of warm and beachy.
I can’t move. My knees want to buckle. I’ll be damned if I collapse before I get to him. He wrenches the door open, practically tearing it from the frame to get to me.
“Glitter Bomb.” His voice is hoarse and wrecked, but my name sounds like salvation.
We move together, and I crash into him. His arms crush me close, so tightly my ribs protest, but I don’t care. I’m with him. I bury my face into his chest, inhaling his calming woodsy scent. I’m alive, and he’s my anchor in blood and glass.
His hands are everywhere, my hair, back, face, cataloging me for damage since I’m splattered in blood. “Baby, are you hurt? I thought I lost you.”
“No,” I choke out. “It’s not mine.”
Rough palms clasp the sides of my face and lift my gaze to his. “Are you telling me you were the heroine in your own story?”
“Yeah.” My smile is equal parts grim and triumphant. “I thought I was the damsel. Turns out, I’m the dragon and saved myself. That’s a romantasy plot right there.” No one can take that away from me.
Ragged breaths and my pounding heart burn between us. Clarity hits like a bullet. I don’t need a protector from men who break and cage me. I’m enough. My own fucking hero.
“I don’t need a savior, August.” My voice comes out as powerful as my declaration. “I need you to stand beside me.”
His eyes reflect awe instead of guilt and regret. “I never thought you were weak, Glitter Bomb. The costume, the color, the mask… you think that’s what makes you strong. But it’s not.It’s you. I want the world to see the woman I see. The one who doesn’t need armor for protection.” His thumb brushes away caked blood, gutting me more than the carnage I left behind.
I huff out a raw laugh. “From here on out, we both agree to stop hiding. No more masks, secrets, or ghosts. Glitter and color are up for debate—preferably in the bedroom.”
“Oh, there’ll be plenty of debate, baby,” August growls in my ear.
Our mouths collide, desperate, bruising, and throbbing with relief. His kiss tastes like regret and promise, the words he can’t spit out. I don’t blame him for what happened. I chose this.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him tightly to me, refusing to ever let go.
The moment shatters as gunfire erupts around us. August snaps to attention, pushing me behind a stack of crates, his body a shield for mine. Glancing up, he surveys the threat. Bullets ping on steel walls. Flashes of fire light on metal.
“Fuck. They sent reinforcements,” August growls.
To be expected. The Romans were never going to let me go easily.
My pulse thunders, but not out of fear. Out of fire, courage, and the recklessness pumping through my veins. I don’t care if we die.Thelma and Louise, here we come, riding off the cliff together.
Five black 4×4s tear into the lot, dark and deadly. More Roman goons sent to stamp out our flames. We’re trapped and can’t move. I left the guns in the goddamn wagon.
Doors slam, and men in dark suits pour out, carrying guns or rifles.
“Need a hand, lovebirds?” Harper’s voice slices through the chaos, sweet as poison.
She strides out, all leather and weapons, lips curled into a grin promising more blood.
“Playtime,” says the man with her, wearing the same dark makeup as August.
